Pyres of Illusion
by Tindomiel
Summary: As Eowyn of Ithilien prepares for a turning point in her married life, politics from afar and fears of madness threaten to destroy all that she has created. She must battle against her nightmare turned reality: a vision of her father in law.
1. Prologue: The Madness of Denethor

**Pyre of Illusion**

By: Tindomiel

Summary: As Eowyn of Ithilien prepares for a turning point in her married life, politics from afar and fears of madness threaten to destroy all that she has created. She must battle against her worst nightmare turned reality: a vision of her father-in-law.

Prologue: The Madness of Denethor

* * *

In times of peace and plenty, few remember history.

Real events, battles and coronations that happened decades ago become just another historical fact as the next generation are born free of the memories. Victories, defeats, strife and turmoil turn into another statement on a scrap of parchment. History records facts meaningless to those who do not know them.

Facts become legend: tales and sagas of the days that were Great, told from mother to child until an entire generation is imprinted with the stories in their head. These are the children who know nothing save what they are told, and believe it all. From reality is born legend; fairytales and myths that no one will try to disprove or contradict.

And the tale passes from scroll to scroll, from mouth to mouth. And what were once interesting facts become little yarns, told by the fireplace, with added horror to scare the young and exaggerated romance inserted for unmarried girls. These are the 'tales' the simple folk know and love, and they eventually and always inevitably reach the lips of the Old Wife.

Who then tells it to the Crown Prince of Gondor.

"But Mamee, why is he up there?" Eldarion asked his nurse as she wetted his hair with water on a comb, pulling it through his soft black hair.

She was a large figure, big and cuddly, and much more fleshy than he own mama, he always thought. His mama was pretty, but the only stories she knew were about Elves that had been told to her by her father, Eldarion's grandfather, and were always about times long ago in a land he'd never heard of.

"Alas, my child! The poor soul spent his life striving, and his death was only a struggle of a mad soul. His ghost haunts the tower forevermore..." Mareth, or Mamee, as Eldarion called her, knew lots of stories. She had been a young girl during the legendary War of the Ring, and knew hundreds of stories from that time. He liked her stories because there were always interesting deaths in each one.

"So what did he do with the Black Ball?" the boy asked, eyes shining, knowing the whole tale, but wanting to savour it once again.

"'Tis called a Palantir, my sweet." Mamee cooed gently, and continued with the story, "The Steward used it to find out things in the world like a far- seeing eye – he thought he was strong enough – but he was sadly fooled. The Dark Lord knew all that went on, and cruelly used the ball to show him images of evil," here she lowered her voice into a conspiratal whisper. The young boy edged nearer, excited by the tale, "And the Steward was strong at first..."

"And then what happened Mamee?"

"Aye, a poor, terrible thing," the old nurse shook her head, as if herself saddened by the tale, "The Steward's own son, who had so valiantly guarded his land, had left to seek counsel from the Elves. The son had quested to save the world from Sauron –but alas! – He was killed tragically. He was a noble man, and a comrade to your own father, but his mind was led awry, and he committed a bad deed. In guilt, the son died; died to save his friends and comrades."

Eldarion's eyes shone, as in sympathy for the renowned man. He felt smug, that his own father had known this man, but he knew his father was also very great, oh yes. He said nothing, waiting for his nurse to proceed with the tale.

"The poor Steward, already mightily troubled by the Dark Lord's forces, sank even deeper into depression. He loved his elder son, very much so. Perhaps he should have showed equal love to his younger child; but he became hard, and cold, and misjudged. He would not relinquish his power, and knew he was fighting a losing battle."

"How did he die? How did he die?" Eldarion cried, showing far more morbid enthusiasm than was healthy for a child of four.

"Before he died, he did something terrible. For you see, now the elder son was gone, it was up to the younger son to lead the armies against the oncoming Darkness. Ay, young Faramir was strong, and brave, just like his brother – but it was never enough to his father, the Steward. Denethor sank into the Palantir more and more, and his mind was clouded by black lies. When Faramir was wounded in battle, his father believed it was fatal, and the grief took away the last of him."

Eldarion held his breath for what was coming.

"Denethor built a pyre – a burning grave. He took his son's unmoving body, and placed it on a pyre of wood - not realising that his son was still alive! He poured oil onto his son and himself, and ordered the pyre... alighted." The nurse's wrinkled eyes flashed, and the child-prince gasped.

"But what happened to the son? What happened to Faramir!" the boy cried. Mamee laughed.

"Fear not. Faramir lived, due to some brave men who arrived in the nick of time. Pippin brought the wizard Gandalf just in time, and Faramir was saved." Eldarion nodded, relieved. He knew the familiar names, even though Pippin was actually Peregrin, and Thain of the Shire. The hobbit had sent him birthday presents on a fair few occasions.

"...But this act enraged Denethor. And though his son was rescued from the flames, he would himself burn... and burn he did. He threw himself on the fire, and there was nothing anyone could do by then. All that time, he clasped the black orb of the Palantir tight in his hands... and he burned."

If Eldarion's eyes were any wider, there would have been danger of him losing them altogether.

"Faramir lived happily ever after, and still is. He fell in love with a brave shieldmaiden, the white lady of Rohan."

"Aunt Eowyn?"

"That's right. And he's coming to visit you today, so don't mess around and don't get your clothes dirty."

Thus, the soft atmosphere of reality returned to the nursery.

The nurse stood from her nursery chair, and finished what she started with, before the story: combing the boy's hair.

"Don't ask inappropriate questions, and don't always stare at the floor, understood?" the young prince nodded, and the two stood up. Silently, they waited, and Mamee bent down every now and then to straighten his boots, or his collar.

The door opened, and a tall man came in. He was middle aged, broad of shoulder, and dressed in rich robes, with a leather tunic bearing the tree of Gondor. Eldarion smiled because uncle Faramir was always kind to him, and usually brought presents.

"Eldarion!" Faramir chuckled, and ruffled Eldarion's just-neat hair, "You will love what I have brought today."

"Is auntie with you?"

"No, I'm afraid Auntie Eowyn stayed behind this time. I am sure she misses you. You must come to ours, and tell your parents to bring you. But she has sent her own gift too. Here is mine first..."

Seemingly from nowhere, Faramir produced a miniature bow of a mock-Elven design, with horsehair for string and a small quiver of arrows made from paper and reeds. He watched the happy smile on the child's face, and let him play with his new birthday present.

"Do you want to see Auntie Eowyn's gift too?"

Eldarion nodded, and Faramir brought out a small box of sky blue. He opened it and took out a small lamb, made completely out of wood, with the head and four feet painted black, and curly designs to imitate wool. Instead of the tail though, there was a wooden bead. Faramir pulled the bead away from the sheep, pulling out a length of string. The bead was pulled back by a mechanism, and as the string moved back into the sheep, a strange noise was emitted.

"It's baa-ing!" Eldarion cried in delight, "Baa baa!" Faramir laughed at this. The nurse was astonished, and Faramir had to explain that no, it wasn't magic, merely clockwork, and a few gears made of polished willow bark for the sound effects. He let the child play with the toy, and watched his happy, carefree face. Later, there would be conferences held, and things discussed in Elessar's hall. But now, he enjoyed this little conference with Elessar's son. But the child had put the toy down.

"Uncle Faramir?"

"Yes, Eldarion?"

"Why did your father try to burn you?"

From behind the boy, Mamee squeezed her eyes shut in exasperation. Faramir did not answer, feeling a hot sharp sensation on his face he would rather forget.

There was silence in the nursery. Faramir wondered exactly how to reply, and decided he had better not. Instead he picked up his cloak.

Eldarion didn't understand why Faramir was leaving so suddenly. The kind man went to the door, a pained expression on his face. At the doorway, he turned. His features were streaked with grief. He gave Eldarion a pitiful look.

"Because he was mad, Eldarion. Because he was mad."

The door shut.


	2. Black Visits

**Chapter two: Black Visits**

* * *

Eowyn skipped lightly over the marshy ground; to her guards, she appeared like she was dancing over the soft earth. Who'd have thought such a graceful woman could be so powerful?

This area of Ithilien was prone to flooding this time of year, and she took care as she descended the grassy slope to the riverbank, not bothering to wait for her guards in their armoured uniforms. They were loyal and obedient, but still grumbled around having to follow her out here so far from the Steward's Palace at such short notice. Their master would not like this. The last thing he wanted was his most beloved wife getting into danger. He would die for her. Eowyn knew that well.

This was important to her though; Faramir would have to know about it later. She would tell him when he came back from Minas Tirith. Poor man; he spent far too much time away from home, and she was determined to treat him well when he returned.

Before Eowyn was the vast camp, filled with shacks, makeshift huts and crudely built temporary homes of gypsies and travellers. This land belonged to the Prince, but he let it for public use. The abundant wood and river meant it was an ideal ground to live off, but only in the warmer months. In the winter, the whole area froze, and became a treacherous and dangerous land. In the warm season though, gypsies and roamers camped here often, and the townspeople traded with them.

Smoke from many fires rose into the clear afternoon sky. Campfires littered the ground around both banks of the river, but here and there, chimneys protruded from neat huts, aromas of freshly hunted pig or deer lunch spreading over the plain.

She pulled down the hood from her heavy cloak, and entered the camp. Small children ran amok, getting themselves quite dirty, while their parents sat around fires, preparing vegetables and meat for a light repast. She avoided them, and they did not recognise her, navigating between shacks and tents until she reached one, and stopped. It was large, above head height, and heavily covered with faded but heavy red carpet.

She knocked gently on the wooden pole doorframe, and swept aside the curtain door.

"Is this the residence of Master Maradif Ar-Shahrazad, renowned healer of Harad?" she called in gently. There was a fire lit stove in one corner, gently propelling smoke through a tube in the carpet ceiling. There was a solitary figure there, but the interior of the tent was void of light, and she could not see him clearly.

"Wait here," she told her two guards. The older and more experienced of the two, Halandil, half-wanted to object. He was dubious of his mistress' mysterious actions that she so desired to keep secret. He was a loyal servant, but his number one priority was her safety.

Eowyn watched his face carefully, and then said calmly, "I will be inside. If anything should happen, I will be quite capable." Here she smiled almost knowingly to herself. She predicted his doubts though, and continued, "But if I ever require your urgent assistance, know this. If ever in unknown danger that I cannot cry for help, I will call out: 'By the leaves of Athelas!' and you will know that I am in danger. That will be our secret code, is that understood? If I am ever among enemies, with no way of communication, a simple exclamation will speak much to those who know its inner meaning." And then she went inside.

Halandil sighed, content, and stood his post outside the door. Lady Eowyn, simple 'healer' though she claimed to be, had much more history to her than met the eye. He knew very well she was quite capable – to have the imagination to think of that code, for example, just showed the fringes of her sharp mind. And too well did he remember the Pelennor... he shivered, despite the warm day.

So why on earth was she coming here, of all places? This place had an ill reputation. She was seeking a healer, but there were plenty of medics in her own home. Here were all gypsies and foreigners: all ploughing at their foul trades. There were sure to be whores and gamblers, and sly men intent of robbing others of their hard earned money.

He spat miserably into the marshy earth. Now, with Elessar controlling the land from Umbar to Eriador, former enemies from Rhun and the South were flooding in to cash in on the wealth of the new Western Empire. He was serving the Reunified Kingdom, and that was how he got his wages. But now with all these immigrants coming in...

Looking down onto his Gondorian sword, with that familiar arched bronze crosspiece, he remembered how he'd used it in the siege of Gondor. Great days they were... terrible, yes, but great. He felt a surge of what could only be patriotic pride.

And now... this was the time of peace. Hah!

He spat again. Politics! Sometimes he thought Middle Earth would be better with dragons.

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The scent of spices assaulted Eowyn's nostrils as she entered the dark tent, and she felt faintly nauseous. The props holding the tent up were made of bamboo, and there were a few cushions and chairs scattered around the tent.

"Master Maradif?" she called, suddenly catching a whiff of a scent that made her head swim. Lavender. The scent of lavender permeated through the entire tent.

"He will return in a moment." Drawled a voice from the corner. Eowyn peered into the shadows, seeing the silhouette of a seated figure, poring over a book from the light of a gap in the wall. He didn't turn to look at her, speaking only quietly. He was impertinent; he probably didn't recognise her as a Lady, but something about him unnerved her. She saw only the side of his face. His eyes were lowered onto his page, teeth biting a dark lip. In his brown earlobe glistened a sapphire.

Eowyn sat down on a bamboo chair stiffly. Smoke hung in the tent along with the lavender, and it made her head swirl. The young man in the corner didn't bother to speak to her, and she endured several minutes of silence, punctuated only by the noises outside, her own tender coughs, and the occasional crackly sound of a page turning.

She felt guilty, slightly, for doing this behind Faramir's back. It was not a huge crime that she was committing, but she knew her husband would rather she find a... safer alternative to this. But she had her reasons. She would tell him. Soon. And so she sat, sighed, and waited.

When Master Maradif finally did return, he recognised her immediately.

"Lady Eowyn!" he cried, bowing low, "What brings you to my service, O noble one?" his tone was clipped with a soft, stretched accent, but his command of the language was astonishing. He was dressed in dark crimson, and his head was wrapped in red cloth. His shoes were leather, and his sleeves were richly embroidered and heavy. All his attire spoke wealth, but Eowyn saw the darned holes, the discreet cloth patches and the clumsily stitched seams of his cloak.

Before she could reply though, he had brought up the boy in the corner by the ear, and smacked him over the back of the head. The boy bowed nervously.

"Show more respect!" Maradif reprimanded, and then turned back to the white lady, a dazzling welcoming smile plastered to his dark toned face.

"You will forgive my apprentice, lady. He is rude, but he is a good boy. I will make sure he eats nothing tonight!"

"Do not trouble yourself - no offence was taken." She replied graciously. Maradif seemed relieved beyond belief – perhaps he feared she could use her position to evict him or such – and gestured her further into the tent. The boy rubbed his ear and returned back into his niche, glaring behind him as he left. Eowyn felt a jolt run through her at that glance, but could not understand why.

The inside of the tent was more spacious than previously thought. Eowyn sat, at his request, at a comfortable padded chair beside a hardwood folding table, whose surface was scored with intricate patterns and lines that she could make no sense of. Opposite her, the swathed medicine man of Harad sat.

"Now, lady," he said kindly, his black eyes shining, "Before you tell me what ails you, please tell me: what brings you here, to me in such a strange and obscure place?"

Eowyn smiled at the remark, but didn't reply, as he went to the stove, and poured boiling water into a cup filled with tea leaves, handing her the drink as if it were a diamond.

"You are a great lady," he continued without a trace of sarcasm, only curiosity, "And your great deeds are known far south. You are rich, and are married to a wealthy ruler. You have a whole army of healers, medics and wise men and women with knowledge of health and herb lore, and many more at your access, all in your own palace. Why do you come here, so far, to seek a travelling medicine man who treats this only as his temporary home?" he gave her a critical look.

Eowyn took a draught of the hot minty tea, and placed it down, smiling gently at him.

"Because, Master Maradif," she said, "Palace medics are talented and skilled, but they are also tremendous gossips. I need confirmation of my... condition before I hear it spoken of behind closed doors. Tongues will wag, and word will reach my husband before the sun is up. My personal maid, who is of Haradrim descent, has spoken of a skilled medicine man of the south currently residing near Lossarnarch. I decided to pay him a visit. If I find my suspicions are false, then there is no harm done. If they are confirmed, I need not fear the gossip that could spread."

"What have you done that you should fear rumour reach your husband?" Maradif asked, a smirk on his face.

Eowyn laughed, "If anything, it is what he has done to me. If I am right, I do not think I want him to know about it just yet. I would rather I tell him than have him hear from giggly maids or medics. This is not my first time, Master Maradif. The previous... caused much grief. I do not want to cause my husband unnecessary concern."

"I understand. I understand what you are referring to. You are with child?"

"That is what I want you to determine."

The healer nodded.

"Give me your wrist. I wish to feel your pulse."

"How may that discover whether I am with child or not?"

"Ah, but the intricacies of the human heartbeat can reveal much about the health of an individual," he said shrewdly. He took Eowyn's white arm and laid it across a small cushion of rolled velvet. Pulling back his sleeve, he placed his dark fingers on her pale wrist. Then he sat pensively, unmoving, concentrating.

"So what brings you to this area of Ithilien?" Eowyn asked lightly, making conversation.

Master Maradif opened his eyes and gave a hearty laugh, "I am headed for Eriador, lady. This is only a temporary stop."

"Eriador?"

"Aye. I wish to set up trade in Bree. I have read many, many books on that mysterious land, and now I can finally see it for myself. I hear that Halflings have been known to traverse there?"

"Indeed, though you would be lucky to meet one. They are seclusive, by nature." Eowyn nodded, "I wish you luck, wherever you travel, and your apprentice too."

"His name is Noraliwi, and he is an idiot! Why did I ever pick him up? Just another mouth to feed, and nothing in his skull!" The medicine man spoke vehemently, shaking a fist at the dark figure of his apprentice in the tent corner. Eowyn laughed, and told him to be less harsh, but the man in the corner scowled at her more despite her kind words.

Maradif shouted something at the apprentice in his own tongue, and the boy turned back to his previous work. The medicine man turned back to the white lady, and bowed, before returning to feeling her pulse.

Eowyn waited in silence and his fingers remained on her wrist, sensing all the subtle irregularities with the regular beats. His eyes flickered, and his fingers twitched on her wrist, and she could feel her whole heartbeat coursing through her body. After a while, he straightened up, removing his hand, and smiled widely at her. Then he snapped his fingers at the apprentice, barking orders in his own language. The young lad bustled around the small tent, taking several bottles of colourful liquid and medicine and mixing them into a small, clear flask.

"I know what you have come to seek." He said, "You need not fear. I have a special brew that has been beneficial for many pregnant women in your situation. You will not lose this child." He took the flask from the reluctant apprentice, "Do you have any preferences for the baby?"

"Faramir always wanted a girl, I think." She said wistfully. The lavender was making her sleepy. She wondered how people from harsh southern climes came across the plant.

"Then you will be pleased to know there is definitely a half-half chance of that!" Maradif cried. He took the flask, swirled it around, and presented it to her, "Drink this in your tea - three spoonfuls every evening. My lady, your previous attempt failed, but I will do everything within my power to ensure this child lives!"

Eowyn laughed with joy, and the black southerner joined in her happy chorus; and even Noraliwi the apprentice smirked to himself, but it was the smirk of someone happy about something for all the wrong reasons.

She called in the guards in, and they didn't understand why she was suddenly so glad; and she did not tell them. She drank the a dose of the flask in one gulp, paid the medicine man, and left for her home, apprehensive, but in a way, greatly relieved.

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_"Eowyn..."_

There was a voice.

Eowyn spoke to herself mentally, no, it was not her husband, he was not due back until tomorrow, and that was not a voice she recognised.

She stirred, and blinked. The last time she checked, she was supposed to be asleep in her private bedchamber.

_"Eowyn..."_

And she was.

Wasn't she?

_"My daughter..."_

Yes, her mind said, this was definitely her bedchamber. So why was her mind so confused?

Images swam before her eyes: a blur of colours, rushing by like wind down a river valley. She blinked, and rose from her cotton sheets, but her bed seemed coarse to her tender skin. Her head felt hot, and cramped. She blinked again, and wondered if she had gone deaf.

_"Eowyn..."_ And there was that voice again. No, she definitely wasn't deaf. She walked a few steps, but her feet were suddenly numb, and cold, and seemed so far away. She stumbled slowly out of the room. The world was a blazing red haze.

_"My daughter..."_

Looking in front of her was like trying to see a gale. Was this a hangover, or was she dreaming of a hangover? Dream... it was a dream. It had to be a dream.

Everything around her was hazy; her eyes wouldn't seem to focus, but she thought she could recognise the arched ceiling of her drawing room, her favourite room in the house. By the large paned window was her favourite armchair, and there was someone sitting in it.

"Eowyn!" the man in the chair said spoke harshly. His hair was grey and bedraggled, and in one hand he cradled a black, shining orb. The palm of his other hand was stroking the head of –Eowyn blinked and rubbed her eyes - a young girl, no more than ten years old. The old man's palms were a raw red. His clothing, like his face, was grey and old.

From a distant ear, she thought she could hear a crackling sound, an urgent, roaring sound of burning.

Where? There was no fire – she could see none.

Eowyn began to cry, out of confusion and fear. The girl who sat at the man's feet looked as if she was about to cry too. She looked terrified, and was mouthing 'help me' at her – but she could do nothing. Her feet were numb and unmoving, and she could hardly stand up. The girl's hair was a golden blonde, just like Eowyn's own, and her eyes were a deep green-grey ... the same colour as Faramir's eyes. Eowyn looked back up at the old man in the chair, and thought saw the same green in those eyes.

And then the girl cried out _"Mama!"_ and Eowyn suddenly understood.

The man in the chair was Denethor.

She cried out, and felt a sharp pain in the back of her head.

Eowyn fell.

Darkness enveloped her mind, and she sank down, down, down.

From the far reaches of consciousness, she heard the blonde girl crying over and over again.

_"Mama! I want my mama!"_

And all was black.


	3. Homecoming

Chapter 3: Homecoming

It was a dream.

A bad dream. Eowyn put it down to bad food, and tried to shake away the memory of the terrified girl-child, but still the feeling of fear and confusion remained.

"My lady, you are sure?"

"I am quite well, I am sure." She replied to the worried frown hovering over her, "Please tell Cook to keep a light breakfast this morning; my appetite is not what it was."

She had told no one about the dream, only mentioning it to her maid, who was now in a state of permamemt concern as a result. Shaliwar, a young girl not yet twenty, was originally from Rhun, and was now employed in the Prince of Ithilien's household. After living in the gypsy camp for five months, she had been hired because of the lack of labour in the city, and had risen up to the ranks to 'personal attendant' . That morning, she had noticed Eowyn's ill pallor, and offered to call a medic, but Eowyn declined. It seemed like betrayal to call a house doctor after she had been to consult an outside one. They would fuss and fret, and if they knew she was with child, would probably forbid her from ever leaving the house. They meant well, but the reason she went to see a gypsy doctor was because she didn't want to worry those healers of her own home.

Eowyn ate her breakfast; she washed her face and hands and put on a green linen overdress for a day of gardening: normal things she did on any other day. And this _was_ a normal day. She drank a good dose of the medicine prescribed by Maradif, feeling guilty towards the midwives of the palace as she did so, and went into the small courtyard-garden.

It was an ordinary day; she repeated to herself over and over again, you do not have a daughter –yet.

The courtyard was a peaceful place, on the side of the palace that overlooked the city. She had it paved with stone slabs when they moved in, with flowerbeds encircling it that she had planted herself. Young trees grew further down, oaks and conifers and vegetation that only hinted at the natural wealth of the realm of Ithilien. Eowyn sat down on a stone bench. From here, she could look down over the town centre. This was her realm. These people were her people, and she would nurture this land like she would nurture her child.

People walked through the streets below, merchants and workers. She saw a stable boy nearing manhood teaching his little brothers to ride a horse – the stable boy himself was employed in her household. Halandil had introduced him as his nephew to her one day, because the young boy's mother had died and the boy needed money. Later, Eowyn found out that the child, Galendir, was in fact just a regular orphan off the street and Halandil had said he was his nephew so Eowyn would have accepted the boy. She would have done anyway. But then she gave Halandil a raise too.

There was a horn call at the palace gates, and as one the mass seemed to raise their heads in understanding: Faramir and his entourage had returned. She spotted a train of horses and a wagon entering the town gates, and felt a surge of relieved happiness. The train wound slowly over the streets; she would greet Faramir when he came home.

From her viewpoint, Eowyn saw beyond the lush valley, green and plentiful, churning out crops to feed a kingdom. And it was good. And it was boring.

How she wished she could swing a sword again! She had promised Faramir since they were married that she would never wield weaponry again, unless, he said, 'it was really, really, and I mean really, my love, important. I do not want you to get yourself in danger needlessly. I will protect you if anything should happen. I will always be here'.

She believed him, she honestly did. He would protect her with his life.

But what was the point? She didn't want him to die for her, especially when she could protect herself so easily.

Ah, yes. The last time he had said those words to her was when they were expecting their first child. It never came.

The doctor had told Eowyn it wasn't her fault, but she never truly believed him.

An hour later, after preparing his chambers and greeting the Steward's train minus a Steward, Eowyn found her husband in the herb garden, accompanied by several youngsters: healers-in-training. It had been an idea of his, and he was a good tutor who never missed a lesson. Faramir looked worn from travelling, still in his riding gear though without the formal armour and tunic. He led the small group around the courtyard where Eowyn had wandered not long ago, and she followed in stealth, sighing mentally to herself. He had returned home for barely minutes, and already he was busy. Teaching, of all cruel labours upon this world!

"Now, how many of you know which of these is the plant athelas?" the prince of Ithilien waved a hand over a few weedy looking plants in a small sheltered flowerbed behind him. No one answered.

"It is also known by the name of 'kingsfoil'." Faramir hinted. A few students put their hands up shyly. Faramir indicated for one, a shy looking girl, to come forward and pick some.

"Athelas," he started again, with the air of a professor, "Is an antidote for many poisons and even magic. As well as disinfecting physical wounds, the fumes of the athelas leaf can clear the mind. Does anyone know any specific natural poisons Athelas can counter?"

The boy next to the girl who picked the athelas put his hand up, "Um... hemlock, nightshade, magic mushrooms and foxglove and um... that plant, that type of leaf from hot places..."

"Yes, that is correct. Athelas can cure many poisons, which, untended, can be fatal. It is also good for the very sick and those... deranged in the mind, serving as a remedy for hallucinations and many other venoms." Eowyn smiled at his little lectures, and decided to come forward.

"Sir, I have a problem on the homework you set on aloe vera" a young wiry boy said, but he was ignored, as a few of his fellow students prodded him.

Faramir saw her instantly, and the students were dismissed, filing our obediently, leaving the couple alone in the garden.

"My love, how fare you?"

"Tired," Faramir admitted with a laugh.

Eowyn kissed him and put her arms around him. He smelt of a recent bath and, for some reason, roast potatoes.

"Have you been near the kitchens?" she asked him.

"Cook had to consult me about a household matter."

"He could have come to me. You work far too hard. From now on, I forbid you to do any strenuous work or labour than can be easily delegated to another's workload."

"-That is rather unfair, my princess..."

"Hush. I have something I need to tell you." She kissed him again, and the two of them walked back to the house, through the rose garden. Their hands met, and clasped.

"So, how was your conference in Minas Tirith?" she asked as they walked back together, hand in hand.

Faramir did not expect her to tell him her news immediately, and continued casually, "Extremely tedious. Elessar himself was bored out of his mind over this –forgive me for saying - pointless treaty. Harad is weak now, but we must not put a condition on our peace together. I do not know how he can cope with that every week – every day perhaps. My burden of work is light compared to his."

Eowyn snuggled against his chest, "Your kingdom is light compared to his."

"Nevertheless, as sworn allies, we must delegate our responsibilities to each other. The kingdoms must stand together to support this treaty, even if it is a little uncomfortable. The implications for trade, beneficial alliances perhaps, are too- "

"Did Eldarion like his gifts?" She interrupted as they entered the hall corridor. The walls were painted extravagantly – Eowyn had hired an artist specifically for that task – and portrayed scenes from the Great Years.

"I am annoyed to say he appreciated your sheep more than my archery set." Faramir replied, as they passed a muriel depicting four short men with curly hair hiding from a cloaked rider on a black horse.

"What did he say to you?"

"Not much." Faramir said sheepishly.

"Not much?" Eowyn laughed, "The last time I visited him, he talked without halt, from the rise of the sun to the ascent of the stars. His mother was quite worn, I remember."

"-Well, I didn't stay for very long with him you see-"

"Surely Elessar's business was not that urgent?"

Faramir became very uncomfortable, "It was what he said to me. Probably that nurse Mareth telling him her old stories again. After I gave him his gifts he asked me... he asked me why my father tried to burn me." He forced a wan smile at this remark.

Eowyn beamed condolingly, "And that was why you felt uncomfortable and had to escape an innocent four-year-old? My dear lord, you have suffered worse than that."

"It is different when spoken by a child. I wish to honour my father's memory, but how can you explain that to one of his age?" Faramir said quietly. Eowyn embraced him again, but his recount had awoken memories of her experiences last night that she would rather forget. She bit her lip. She couldn't tell him about her dream. It would only worry him.

"Perhaps I will employ that Mareth from Arwen. She seems a very useful character to have around children." Eowyn said, to try and change the subject.

"What children, my wife?" Faramir said forlornly. Eowyn stroked his stubbly chin, and brought his face toward her own, gazing piercingly into his green eyes with her own.

"Our children, my lord."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the students of Faramir's, who had returned to find his master to ask him about the work set on aloe, found his and her highness laughing and embracing in the rose garden, as if nothing else mattered in the world. The boy coloured, and decided not to wonder what they were doing. They had not noticed him; a nearby rosebush gave him some cover. The prince had stood up, and was saying something to her, and she was nodding, and beaming hugely. Both had their clothes on, and looked merely ecstatically cheerful rather than... anything else. Prince Faramir was now kissing his beautiful wife, and laughing, and embracing her, and both looked happier than he had ever seen them. In a swoop, he took her by the waist, and swung her around him in an arc. She laughed, and he laughed, and the watching boy suddenly felt that he had interrupted something that he shouldn't have. But it was a lovely sight, to see the ruling couple thus.

The student, from behind a rosebush, sighed thoughtfully, and left. The aloe work would have to wait until tomorrow.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the glad couple had calmed a little from the good news, they sat down on a bench in the necessary task of fevered discussion.

"How did this happen?" he asked, overjoyed and breathless.

"In the normal fashion, I should hope."

He was flustered, nervous. Faramir stood up, and then sat down again. He took his wife's hands, and then let them go suddenly, rubbing the hair away from his face.

"How did you find out?"

"I went to see... a medicine man."

"Who? Hador?"

"No, he was not of the palace. He is not from Ithilien either. He is from Harad, and currently residing near Lossarnarch awhile before travelling to Eriador."

"You went to Lossarnarch? To see one of the Haradrim? Alone?" he was beside her again, clasping her hands tightly.

"No," she soothed him, "I was not alone. Why are you worried, lord? I was well protected, aye, well protected against horses, traders, gypsy mothers and fathers and their young." She gave him a smile, which he returned sheepishly, "Shaliwar recommended him to me. I did not want to find a palace healer or midwife because... I feared their lightning tongues would reach you before mine. You know how they talk. I know how you would react, and if it turned out... badly, I would not want you to suffer. I do not wish to face their pitiful smiles again. I would hope to hav a first child, but I do not want to remember there was a predecessor. That is why I have not revealed this to you until now." Eowyn paused again, "I never want to put you through that again, nor myself."

"But surely that was not the only reason?"

"The medicine man gave me a... concotion, of sorts. It is a medicine he makes himself. It is made from herbs that cannot be grown this far north and is especially good for young women and mothers and their unborn. He said it would help. Shaliwar told me he had prescribed the same thing to her aunt and now she has seven cousins!" she was talking fast, babbling, but she had to convince him.

"Eowyn, there are so many options! Why would you experiment with such dubious folk? That drug you spoke of could be dangerous. Why do you need such a remedy? You are not ill – a child is not an illness!"

"Faramir, I want this child." Eowyn stopped, her hands curled into docile fists. Her eyes were pricking, and she had to calm herself, choking back a sob. Hormones, it was hormones. But he didn't understand. She couldn't go through another miscarriage – one was enough. She would try anything, "I want a child. Motherhood has been stolen from me once already..."

Faramir hushed her with a finger, "I do too." He held her close to him; stroking her soft hair as joy elevated his soul.

"Then I want to give our baby life," She whispered into his shoulder. His warm arms tightened around her. The day was overcast and grey, but how? In his mind, the sun was shining like a silmaril. Those people below, the people around them, they knew nothing of the joy that he knew. Nothing could remove this light from his face. He turned and kissed his wife again on the forehead, and they both laughed gently.

Before them was the world, a beautiful jewel of a future; even more so now, for there was something in that future.

A baby.

"Hello, my child." Faramir whispered, his hand upon his wife's abdomen. Eowyn smiled, noticing how he said 'child', rather than 'son', as rulers in need of heirs were apt to do. But the smile faded, because in her mind, she couldn't shift the blonde girl with the terrified green eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She dreamt of Denethor again that night.

Faramir was out with the guard, despite her commands that he not work, and she was alone in her bed.

It felt so real, like walking in her sleep with a pounding headache: back to the drawing room with the painted arches and the flowers outside and the girl with the green eyes.

The child was playing on the carpet, with a doll and a little wooden sheep, small fingers deftly stroking the doll's woollen hair, and pulling the cord on the sheep, making it bleat mechanically. The noise was strange and hollow to Eowyn's ears. She noticed the girl's manner was disturbed, as if unnaturally forced to play for her. Terrified green eyes constantly met Eowyn's own, and it tore her heart.

She tried to reach out to the girl, pull her back instinctively into a protective embrace, but the she ran.

Straight into the arms of her grey grandfather.

Without thinking, Eowyn curtsied.

It was Denethor. She had never met him before – though she'd had a distant memory of being told about the court of Gondor as a child by her uncle, about the moody successor of Ecthelion, with his wilting wife and proud children. He had not been so old then.

Now, she would not recognise him, had she not heard his memory described by the women of the palace.

The figure grinned at her.

He laughed. Eowyn shuddered. It was a coarse, hollow, inhuman sound, and it made her feel physically sick. He picked up his palantir and threw it hard at her feet. She heard the sounds and felt the pain: tinkling fragile glass smashing. Blackness.

Eowyn retched.

There was sharpness in her throat. And she was in her bed. Alone. The sheets were tangled around her, her back feeling like she had been thrown against the bed several times. She must have tossed all night, and so Faramir did not disturb her. Light was peeping through the covered windows, and she heard the muffled sounds of her husband changing in his private garderobe.

Her stomach convulsed again, and she scrambled out of bed for the privy.

There was that twisted feeling again, the sick feeling of fear and worry for the green-eyed girl who had no name. It was a nightmare, and she was shaking, but she calmed herself.

It was only a dream.

But that didn't explain the bruise on her foot, and the scratches from broken glass upon her skin.


	4. Vengeful Spirits

Chapter 4:  
  
"Why cannot we just kill them all?" the speaker landed a heavy fist on the table. His face was hidden in the shadow of the gloom, and his voice was gruff. There were murmurs from the smoky surroundings, assents of agreement, "Kill them all and be done with it!" a few cried.  
  
"Because, my dear Udun," another voice started, a voice of authority. This voice came from the head of the table, and drawled, "You obviously have not been listening. Kill them?" the speaking figure gave a snorting laugh, and there was a flash of blue in the darkness, "You are a fool Udun. There is a simple reason. You can kill them. And then you will die by Elessar's own sword. You can remove his allies that way, but then he will have someone to blame. He will rise up, and we will be no longer, do you understand?"  
  
"But this plan of yours – how long will that have to take?!"  
  
The voice at the head of the table sighed, as if exasperated with an insolent child.  
  
"Subtlety is something you have all yet to learn. Elessar thinks he has freed us from the thraldom of Annatar, and expects us to give in to his rule so easily! But he would." The speaker shifted. A silhouette of a dark, young face drifted in and out, of view, "We are pioneers, my friends, sole survivors of a defeated and shamed nation that still have our dignity intact. But we will avenge our fatherland! However, if we strike at them directly, they will crush us. Gondor is not alone. Elessar has the support of Elves – but they are a failing people. They are no concern of ours. Nevertheless, more imminent dangers, such as Rohan, Eriador and Ithilien need to be taken into account."

The figure stared around his comrades, his subordinates, but he needed their strength. "Udun, do you really think that if Eomer of Rohan and Faramir of Ithilien are both assassinated, Gondor will immediately be weak and fall? You are a fool."  
  
The last remark was spoken with venom. Udun bowed his head in submission to his superior's will. The man was right, of course. Why else was he the head of this operation? But such plans he made: all so intricate and subtle – how could he expect them to work? The man was a lore master. He'd read about the history of all the nations, and expected to use it to his advantage.  
  
"How do you know if your plans are working?"  
  
The figure at the head leaned back, "I have my contacts."  
  
"The servant?" the Haradrim snorted, "She will betray us for her mistress, sooner or later. Better get what you can out of her, and then kill her!"  
  
"Udun, you seem to think a day is not complete without a murder."  
  
"'Tis for the pride of our country, my lord. Upon my oath, by nature, I am not a violent man; but I wish to bathe my feet in the blood of my enemies, and do not want to wait for the day these feet are old and wrinkled."  
  
There were murmurs. A smirk appeared for a moment in the smoky gloom.  
  
"Oh how droll you are. The servant will die, in due course. But no one, and that is no one, will directly harm the Lord and Lady. We will drive them to their own perdition. We will turn Elessar's allies away and against him. Gondor is nothing without allies. We will be stronger than her. You all saw the War of the Ring. We remove the allies first, and then we will remove Gondor."  
  
"But how long will all this take?" another man spoke up.  
  
"Long," was the reply, "It may be next month, it may be next year, it may be the year after. Who knows, this task may even have to be passed onto your sons. But we will succeed! Our pride must be restored! We have suffered humiliation from them long enough! They claim to help us, but they taunt us and look down upon us! We will abide by this no longer! We will not accept defeat! We will writhe into their paradise like a serpent, and poison the fruit of their being. We will get our revenge on the West."  
  
And there was cheering around the table. And the chief of the united tribal states of the south smiled to himself in the darkness, a sapphire glittering in his ear.

* * *

"Are you well, my love? You look paler than snow."  
  
Eowyn nodded, wincing slightly at the pain in her leg. She had not told Faramir about it. The leg was probably because she banged it against her bedpost. But the dreams...  
  
"Did you sleep last night? I'm sorry I had to be out. Halandil and Beorn were a little concerned about some unfamiliar youngsters coming thieving at night in the citadel, so I stayed with them all night to check the patrols."  
  
"It's alright. I... just had something of a nightmare." She chuckled uneasily.  
  
"What of?" he asked, putting his strong arm around her shoulders. Eowyn hesitated, and bit her lip uncertainly.  
  
"You can tell me," he comforted her.  
  
She took a deep breath. She had no idea how he would react if she told him. How did you tell your husband you had been dreaming about his dead father?  
  
"I... dreamt... of your father, Faramir. I dreamt of Denethor."  
  
Touché. High marks for simplicity.  
  
The arms around her seemed to lose their strength; but the strong touch returned, firmer than before. There was a silence, filled with the sounds of nature.  
  
"My father?" he sounded calm, but there was a quake in his voice she had never heard before. His expression was blank, and she decided to continue.  
  
"He was there... and... our daughter." And seeing the quirk in his face, "Yes, Faramir, our daughter. She was –afraid- of him."  
  
The arms around her were so tight she felt trapped. God, she knew how he felt about this subject! She knew too well how much grief he had suffered about it. This was not the right time, and she cursed her own foolishness. The matter had long ago been dealt with, but the scars still showed. There would always be scars. Why did she burden him with such trivial news when he was already overwhelmed by her first set of news?  
  
And then he let go.  
  
"I'm sorry." He said, brushing hair away from his face, "Elbereth, why do I do that? He's dead. He's dead. He's gone."  
  
She embraced him, "I am sorry," She shouldn't have brought this up. She knew how much it hurt it him. She remembered when they stayed in Minas Tirith and he couldn't sleep because of the tower. At night he would look out toward it, the former keep of the Palantir, and every night they spent there killed him. And she could bet the talk he'd had with young Eldarion hadn't helped either. She kissed him gently, and stroked his cheek.  
  
And he stared deep into Eowyn's eyes, a deep pleading look, and said with a desperate, almost childlike voice  
  
"Why won't he leave me?"

* * *

_"My daughter..."  
_  
Eowyn's head jerked. Elbereth, it was happening again. She turned and turned to view her sifting surroundings, being met with colours and objects she recognised but couldn't place.  
  
To her right was the door that divided her bedchamber from her husband's. He hardly ever used his own bed, but tonight, he felt he needed the time to think, and she had let him. She wanted to call out to that door, wanting to feel his physical support and the security of his closeness. She opened her mouth, and suddenly felt sick. She couldn't speak. She couldn't think.  
  
Stumbling, she got up from her bed with the muddled manner of dreaming. Her head span as she wandered around a room. This place was... strange. The colours were all wrong, and she could smell a scent that reminded her distinctly of purple.  
  
"Mama?" Eowyn looked down, and saw the familiar face of a young girl with green eyes and blonde hair.  
  
"Yes?" she answered weakly.  
  
The girl with the terrified eyes – the exact same girl - pulled her down close and whispered in her ear, "Grandfather wants to talk to you." Before running out of Eowyn's door. Eowyn followed her out, realising too well she was wearing nothing except her linen shift. She followed the sound of the echoing footsteps around corners and corridors, searching out the young girl in the night by the faint light of the moon outside.  
  
Eventually, Eowyn found her in the drawing room. Sitting in the corner chair as if it was a throne, was Denethor. It could only be him. His hair was grey, hanging about his face, thus covering most of it. His aura was haunting, and Eowyn was chilled to the bones. She felt the bruise on her leg throbbing. His palantir was at his side, whole and unbroken.  
  
"F-father..." how else could she address him? This was the man whose son she had married. His eyes glanced towards her, and Eowyn felt a jolt run through her with the sheer malevolence in them.  
  
The man said nothing to her, but raised up both his palms in front of his face. Eowyn put her hand to her mouth. His hands were red, a bloody, burnt fleshy red. From his wrists to his fingers, his skin was burnt the colour of henna, a dark red black evil colour.  
  
"Look what you have done..." he spoke, his hands trembling. There was an ethereal quality about his voice, something that didn't quite register with the ears. His tone was clear, and he did not possess the accent of the Gondorrim. His manner of speaking was... strange. She had to say something.  
  
"Why... why are you here?" she called out to the seated spirit. Her voice sounded feeble and thick, but she felt she must speak.  
  
"To right a wrong."  
  
"What wrong is that? Why do you not talk to your own son?" she must confront her fears.  
  
Denethor leaned forward, eyes glittering in an ugly leer.  
  
"Rohirrim shieldmaiden, you and he never should have been."  
  
Eowyn couldn't contain herself, but calmed herself enough to say, in a cool but strained voice, "Do you think I am not worthy of your only remaining son?" she felt her own voice shaking.  
  
"That is part, but not all. You have married a worm! A mole, who crawls and trudges through dirt and books and does nothing worthy!"  
  
Eowyn gasped at the man's words.  
  
"How dare you! You would speak such about he of your own flesh and blood?"  
  
"He is a disappointment to his father."  
  
"Fool! Old miser! You punished your son enough in life, and now you will haunt him in death? He is your son!"  
  
The old man reached out a burned red hand, to grasp tightly the pale white arm of the small blonde girl. Petrified green eyes stared up at Eowyn, imploring her to help her. But Eowyn could do nothing. She just watched the girl, and the grey man didn't let go.  
  
"You know who she is." The grey man leered.  
  
"Let her go." Eowyn breathed. She was forcing herself to be calm and create an icy, calm facade; but inside, torment was taking her apart. Please, please, she prayed, let me wake, let me wake and let all this be over.  
  
"She is not yours."  
  
"Let her go." Her voice was breaking with tension. She would never let herself cry, but this: this was physical pain. The dark eyes tore at her, raping her soul, "She is mine as much as she is yours."  
  
Denethor laughed, and Eowyn suddenly thought how different it sounded to Faramir's laugh, which was always light and full of emotion. She shuddered at the grey man's coarse sound. It reminded her of her late uncle, King Theoden, when he was under Wormtongue's malicious influence. Those evil days were over, and her uncle had become good again, before he died bravely. She wondered if perhaps this figure was not Denethor, but also another mind, a dead spirit, that had been poisoned.  
  
"My lord," she said, voice suddenly gentle, "What do you want of me?"  
  
The burned red fingers caressed the throat of the little girl by his side, "Eowyn of Ithilien, I want you to die." 


	5. The Definition of Democracy

Chapter 5:

A fine day dawned across the land of Rohan. White lilies clustered in harmony with the simbelmyne, and Lothiriel accompanied her husband as he went for a walk, past the burial mounds of Rohan's past kings. White snow covered them all by now, even the two newest, her cousin by marriage, and his father, Theoden. The green meadow grass around them swayed in the comforting summer winds. Above, the sky was blue.

But the mind of Lothiriel was swarmed with rain clouds.

"This is a time of peace, my love," Eomer said softly to his dark haired wife, the two of them walking arm in arm.

"I know my lord. But how long will this peace last? I fear you will ride to your death, and you have only just returned."

"Elessar wishes for me to accompany him to the south. It is not just I. Faramir will be called too, and the leaders of the Northern realms. Even Legolas will journey with us, as far as Umbar. It will not be a long trek, I promise. Then we will elect a new ambassador who will aid this striving misled country and former enemy in earning back her pride and wealth."

"Do you really think they will submit so easily to the conquerors?" she asked in a small voice.

"We cannot be worse than Sauron. They had better."

"Or you will crush them my lord? This striving, misled country?"

Eomer cleared his throat in a mock-authoritive manner, "They will not be under the noose of the west. They will be a kingdom in their own right. We will all be allies in this middle earth."

The daughter of Dol Amroth and Queen of Rohan sighed.

"Your dream is a sweet one. But there is no harmony in politics. You are a warrior, but battles are not always fought on a field of gold and glory. Every nation is in thraldom to another, my lord. A kingdom is about power. If you give them a kingdom, do you not fear they will use that power against us?"

They stopped at the last mound; both knowing deep in their hearts for whom the next grave mound here would be constructed.

"Why should they?" Eomer spoke, turning to his wife, "We are their saviours. They would not have survived the past six years had it not been for our charity and aid."

"They are a proud people. Do you think they will suffer charity? Perhaps they see it as a... humiliation."

King Eomer Eadig put an arm around his florid wife: "It would be a greater humiliation if they found out Ithilien has stopped sending them grain for the winter." He said with a mocking smile. It was a fact that there was not much difference in the seasons in the land of Harad. The people of the South actually needed food more in the summer, when the heat was too much for crops and livestock.

"Look," he said at the look on her face, "The Reunified Kingdom is a fair one. I think if Elessar suddenly became a tyrant, the Steward of Gondor certainly would not approve. And I myself would hear the beckon of duty. As long as we are all allied in a common cause, there is little reason for doubt. And if anything happens to we three kings, we can always rely on our queens to help us out." He added with a grin.

She smiled back at him and they walked back to their mounts, grazing peacefully on the fresh green meadows, oblivious to the cruel and complex world around them. Lothiriel envied them because they had no worries or cares apart from their own personal survival. She had to look after her own as well, but it was much more complicated process.

Slowly, they both walked back, arm in arm once more.

"When are you leaving?" she asked.

"Tomorrow, I should think. I will pay a visit to Ithilien while I'm on my way. If there is anything unforgivable according to the Telcontar, it is tardiness."

Lothiriel smiled, as she mounted her horse gracefully, "Then I shall help you to pack."

* * *

It was times like this that Faramir wished his brother were still alive.

Eowyn was in tears. She sat at her bedside, her hands cradling her belly. Her face was pale.

Faramir sat by her, but his face was turned away.

Morning rays reflected off her pale face from the drawn window, but the light was cold and harsh. Her husband sighed, and put a reluctant arm around her withered shoulders, feeling her flinch.

"Am I mad?" her voice quaked.

What could he say? How could he comfort her? And how could he himself remove that sick feeling from his stomach? The ghost of his father was haunting his beloved wife. How could this happen? Why now? If only Boromir were alive. He always knew the right things to say, or do. It was always he who comforted his younger sibling. He felt desperate and humiliated, that now more than ever, he needed someone who was dead.

Absently, he stroked her pale knee. It looked slightly bruised, and her foot had scratched red marks. There was nothing in the bedroom that could have caused her harm, and the injury, though minor, did not seem to merit her attention. How could he let her sleep alone after she had been having nightmares? All midwives knew that pregnant women had queer moods: it was up to the husband to put up with them. He had tried his best, but he knew, from the first moment she had given him the news, he had wanted to run away.

No, he really did want a child: A son and heir, or a daughter. It would make his dreams come true. But he was sick with fear.

He feared. He feared just as much as Eowyn did about the child, and worried about it more. It had never strayed from his mind. She was relying on her foreign potion, but what could he rely on? He had to make her stop taking the 'medicine', but he knew she was stubborn. She would never give up, despite what had happened before. The doctors had warned a woman's body could only take so many miscarriages.

_Was_ she going mad?

In answer, he took her in his arms, burying his face deep in her soft neck.

"No. You just haven't slept well, that's all." He knew inside that was a lie, but he was doing his husbandly duty, and he loved his wife. He stroked her golden curls and whispered, "Tonight your side I will _not_ leave."

It would have been a different world if Boromir had been alive. If Boromir had lived, Denethor would not have sunk into what he did. If Boromir had lived, Faramir would not have suffered his war wound – even now it still hurt him – and his father would not have died. If Boromir had lived, his father would still be alive. His father would still be sane.

But if Boromir had lived, Elessar would not have been king. The living Denethor would have seen to that. And then where would he, Faramir, be? Would Eowyn be married? The question was more _who_ was Eowyn more likely to marry, given the choice? It was chance that brought them together in the Houses of Healing, all those years ago.

You had no competition by that time, a dark side of him spoke. Faramir shuddered, and suppressed the thoughts. He no longer wanted to think about the possibilities.

But he allowed himself to ponder – why did everything happen so neatly? Well, for him at least. Happily ever after, all because his father went mad and died. Perhaps it was meant to happen, perhaps not. And now here was a child.

But now the past, and the ghost of Denethor was coming back to haunt them.

Haunt, yes, that was the right word.

But why would his father want to hurt him so? Why would he want to hurt Eowyn? There must be something wrong here. His father may have been mad, but he was not malevolent. It was just a dream, after all. She may have been sleepwalking.

But the same dream, for consecutive nights...

Was it his fault? Did he pass something onto her? Looking at his sickly wife, Faramir sincerely prayed that madness was not hereditary.

Suddenly Eowyn jolted, and stood up.

"Do you know where Shaliwar is?" she asked him timidly, eyes still red.

"I will send someone to look for her." he assured, and took her soft form back into his arms. God, he worried about her. He loved her, and seeing her, touching her and knowing she was his to protect... it was a beautiful ache to his heart. It was love. He knew he was overprotective at times – when her icy shieldmaiden facade shattered, this was the icicle butterfly he had to protect.

And he feared he would crush her.

The door opened, and Faramir started, fingers instinctively reaching at his hip for a sword that was not there.

"My Lord?" it was Halandil, and he relaxed a little, and let go of his wife.

"Yes? You are not interrupting anything."

"Er, I was just coming here to tell you that three of the baggage horses have fallen ill. I'd like your permission to go into the town and buy some ponies. The market will be open for another few hours."

"Why do you need more horses?" Eowyn asked, her head jerking up from her husband's shoulder.

"The horses we have are not enough for the journey, my lady." The man replied.

"You have my permission." Faramir said, and the man bowed and left the room.

When the door shut, Eowyn looked up at her husband. Faramir was somewhat glad to see that her earlier frost had evaporated now. Her fragility, which had unnerved him earlier, was gone, replaced by a look of sad longing.

"You are leaving." It wasn't a question. He nodded.

"Within the next fortnight, perhaps next week. I know it's soon, I know I have barely just returned, but understand that this is important."

But she merely nodded her head resignedly.

"How long will you be gone for?"

"Elessar said it would be anything between three weeks to three months. It depends how the situation is there. But I was starting on packing today."

Eowyn nodded. She stood up, with the aid of a chair arm, and walked to the window. She pulled the sash, and let in a glorious morning. It gave her face more life somehow, but Faramir thought how tired she looked.

"What is the situation there?" there was no resentment in her voice. She merely wanted to know.

He paused before answering, "Stable, at least, for the moment. Harad is a large land, and long it has suffered under the yoke of Sauron. Still, the shadow has its supporters. That is why a new ruler must be installed quickly. We of the unified kingdoms have decided its fate too long."

"Who will the new ruler be?"

"Well, he was chosen by Legolas, surprisingly. The royal bloodline of the Haradrim has either run dry or is in hiding from us (can't imagine why, with them supporting Sauron and so forth). When we went down there to meet the people, he recognised 'honesty and compassion and courage' in him. He was a nobleman, and literate. We found him to be leader material, so leader he will be. But the treaty between our nations must be signed, by at least three of us, Aragorn, myself and Eomer. That is the document that will give him true power and his nation true freedom. I should know; I wrote most of it."

He was aware that his voice was more cheery than usual. He was talking more, and trying to sound light, but it seemed to work. His wife returned to her normal state. She had not forgotten the night, but she was trying to. She turned around to him sharply.

"But will the people not oppose a leader who has been chosen for them? You say you are giving them their own rule, but still, you are deciding it for them." She smiled defiantly at him.

Faramir smiled a little to himself, realising that they were debating, an enjoyable activity that they had not partaken in for a long time, "I did suggest to Elessar that we let the people decide for themselves. Candidates would come forward, and people would vote for the one they wanted to govern them, as a 'one-man one-vote' system, but your brother dismissed it immediately."

"Eomer is something of a monarchist." Eowyn said dryly, "The Rohirrim have a fond attachment to their kings."

"Well, it would not work in any case. The candidate would just try to influence the people with lies so they will vote for him. The system is too susceptible to cheating. It is safer to just choose for them."

"Who is the new leader then, he who will bring progress and liberation to this country?"

Faramir smiled, and seeing a bunch of grapes lying on a side table, ate a few, throwing them in the air and catching them in his mouth, "Wife, should you not be paying more heed to domestic issues, rather than worldly ones?"

Eowyn feigned mock surprise at this, and pelted her husband with grapes, "You have already taken over domestic duties for me. What have I now to care for?"

"Well, if you must know, he is called Khalifah. He is a nobleman, and a retired sergeant. He is a good man."

"I do not doubt your judgement. Will he be crowned?"

"Not in the same way as a coronation. The signing of the document is really just a ceremony, but an official one, which is why it is so important. Khalifah, though an honest man, has his opponents, who would hate to see him ascend to the position we create for him. The ceremony will take place in a months time."

"Then I shall help you to pack." She said with a smile, unknowingly mimicking her sister-in-law, but inside, she felt like crying.

* * *

Halandil was thinking a lot as he traversed the town square. He was concerned, for one, about the state of his lady. She had not been the same since he accompanied her to that gypsy hut. He did not know exactly what had been said and done in that tent, but she had been happy, and now she was not.

And now that Prince Faramir was leaving...

He had picked three ponies, two male and one female. They seemed docile enough, a little on the fat side, but better fat than thin. With a leather lead, he harnessed them all onto the same lead, and slowly guided them through the streets of Osgiliath back to the Prince's stables. He had bought them from a Variag-turned-trader, with brown skin and very few teeth, paying twenty gold coins and three silver pieces. He couldn't help feeling he had been overcharged. Wasn't one horse usually about five gold pieces?

There were a lot more coloured faces around him now; less than a decade ago there were none. So subtly, they had crept in, to share the wealth of Ithilien... Halandil shook his head. He was not xenophobic by nature, and did not consider himself racially prejudiced. In fact, he had even befriended some of the emigrated haradrim. Why, many of the chefs at the palace were from the south, and with them, had brought the gift of many culinary mouth-watering delights. Halandil had tried many of them, and agreed, it was very tasty, and indeed, made his mouth want water very much.

Even one of Eowyn's maids was haradrim. Shaliwar was a pretty thing, he himself had conceded that fact, and Lady Eowyn was very fond of her. She worked hard, and he often saw her, bustling around the palace, attending to her mistress' every whim.

Come to think of it, he hadn't seen her for a while now... where had that girl got to?

He was abruptly distracted from his thoughts by a dark skinned stranger walking suddenly into him.

"Watch where you're going!" he yelled, out of tetchiness. He noticed the man was wearing a heavy cloak in the summer, but he could see his dark face from under the hood, something glittering in the darkness. The man bowed his head, and Halandil apologised immediately. He was a captain of the guard, and had a reputation to uphold. He had heard of incidents where haradrim had been lynched by less forgiving Gondorrim, and did not want to be thought of as one capable of those atrocities. And one of his subordinates had told him about the late night trespassers around the palace and city streets. There were rumours of kidnapping, theft, and general nightly misdemeanours.

"I'm very sorry." He said again, but the stranger nodded, and scurried past him hurriedly. He shrugged inwardly. Foreigners were strange, after all, and they had different ways. Very strange, different ways. Very strange...

He looked back behind him, but the cloaked man had vanished. He turned back, and there was a dark alley on his left. That was where the man must have come from. It was a very narrow gap, the buildings either side being a butchers and a tailors, and little light filtered to the floor there. Halandil was pretty sure, with a butchers and all, there would be rats.

But there was something else there, in that gap-alley. Not a rat, a person. He could see a silhouette there. Looking round, he tried to see if any parents had lost a toddler, but the street was busy and raucous, and no one was lost.

He looked back at the alley. Yes, there was definitely a person there, leaning, slumped against the wall, very still.

"Hello?" he called in, and started to approach the figure, leaving the horses by the butcher's awning pillar. As he got closer he saw the person was small, short, and definitely female.

He saw the fingers of the person was dripping blood. The arms, clothes were bloodied, and there was a bad smell. The face was covered in blood too, but Halandil had no trouble recognising it.

Now he knew where that girl had got to.


	6. Return of the Medicine Man

_Enjoy. This chapter was partially-reassembled from the previous chapter because it wouldn't fit. This story is inadvertently becoming more and more political... (A/N at bottom)_

* * *

Part 6

"Master Maradif, do you know why I called you here?"

The Medicine Man of Harad bowed low before the White Lady of Ithilien.

"I came as soon as called. I did not ask for a reason."

The wife of the Steward lay back on a long sofa-like chair. There were white pillows for her to lean on. Her hair was loose and long and flowing, and she wore easy clothes: a linen shift with a cotton overdress of pale blue. Her feet were bare. It was obvious she had not gone out for many days.

"I wish to discuss some things in private with you." Eowyn glanced toward the scowling figure that stood behind his master. Maradif took the hint. He barked a few words at Noraliwi the apprentice, who left the room quietly without complaint. Eowyn's eyes followed him.

She bid the healer to sit. He did so awkwardly.

"Shaliwar!" she called. A brown haired girl came in, bearing drink and fruit.

"I am Lirwen. Shaliwar is not here. She has not been seen for some time." The timid girl said.

"I see." Eowyn stared pensively for a while. Then, recollecting her senses, she offered the refreshments to the healer.

"I cannot eat while my lady has a problem." He said.

"You are kind, but, please, drink something. It is a hot day, and you will have walked far."

"Does his lordship know that you asked to meet me?"

Eowyn paused as she poured the man some apple and grape wine.

"No." she said, "You know that I do not wish him to be unnecessarily concerned. This meeting is unnecessary. But he is concerned at the moment, very much so. In a week he is leaving for your country, master, to bear witness along with my brother, the King of Rohan, to a treaty that Elessar has drawn between the western kingdoms and your realms. He has enough on his plate, as they say in Bree."

"Ah yes. Bree." Maradif sighed, "I had thought that I too must head north for there... but I have grown to like this land and its mild climate... I wish to travel, but I am no longer a young man. I hope you understand, lady."

Eowyn nodded, "I too, am no longer the shieldmaiden that struck the Witch King. She who did it was a brave fool who was lucky and won her Prince. And she seems a distant memory." Eowyn stared gravely into her cup, and then said, "How does your apprentice feel? Will he follow you north or does he wish to stay here in Ithilien?"

"I do not know. I do not know whether I still wish to head north or not. He said when I picked him up that he would follow me wherever I went, but I feel he would rather stay in Ithilien. It would be wrong to drag him after an old man's fancies."

"Oh?" Eowyn stared intensely at the old man, "You say you picked him up?"

"Aye, lady. When I set off with my mule in Umbar, he came to me, a young man in pretty poor shape, asking me where I was headed. I said I was going to Ithilien, and then Dunland, and then Eriador, for Bree, and he said 'take me with you'. I was totally against the idea at first. But he told me he had knowledge of herbs and concoctions, and convinced me to take him on as an apprentice. He's not the hardest worker, but he's remarkably bright, and quite useful through our time together."

"How old is he?" asked Eowyn

"Hmm. Not much younger than yourself, lady, I would think. I have never asked him."

"That's a very old age to become an apprentice."

"He... is a little extraordinary, certainly. But I feel very warm towards him. He is, after all, an orphan." Maradif said

"How do you know?"

Maradif was silent.

"Are you a married man, master?"

The healer drew a deep breath, "I was."

"What happened?" Eowyn could not stop herself from asking. The man hesitated before starting.

"My sons went to war and never returned. My daughters married men who went to war and never returned. I do not know what became of them. Orcs are not kind to prisoners. My wife... she pined away for her lost children and a 'fluence from the stars killed her. So you see. Your people were not the only people to suffer under Annatar."

"I am sorry," Eowyn said eventually.

"But we are talking astray. You called me here to discuss something."

"Ah yes. Shaliwar?" Eowyn called, then stopped, "No, wait, she cannot be found." she walked over to her dressing table, and brought the glass vial, half full with the prescribed dark concoction.

"Ah, the baby potion." Maradif said cheerfully, "Has my lady been taking it every day as prescribed?"

"No," Eowyn said curtly, to the medicine man's surprise, "Master, I believe I have been suffering side effects."

"Side effects?" the man's expression was agape.

"I asked you here to alert you of this. I have been suffering from... dreams that are most queer in nature."

"Dreams?"

Eowyn put down her cup. Her manner became one of a tidy schoolteacher.

"Master, I have reasoned it with myself logically. It is quite obvious that my dreams are caused by your potion – it has something to do with it all anyhow. For three nights consecutively since taking the medicine, I have dreamt of my deceased father-in-law threatening my, as yet unborn, daughter. I also have reason to believe I have been sleepwalking. Is this a regular occurrence with your other clients, master Maradif?" her voice was, alas, chilly.

Maradif had the look of a rabbit condemned staring up at a brief future in a potato stew.

"My lady! I-I... I do not understand! I have n-never, you must believe me – I would never harm—"

She held up a soft hand to halt him.

"Please. I accuse nothing yet." She watched him for a while as he fretted in front of her uneasily, and then continued carefully, "Although one must admit, it is a subtle plan. As the ruler of a small but significant nation makes plans to join the campaign of a much larger and powerful one, his wife and unborn child unexpectedly fall upon problems..."

Maradif coughed, and then started to choke.

"Please..." he spluttered, "I would never..."

She stopped him again.

"I smell a rat, as they say in Bree. Denethor does not wear a sapphire earring. You are excused, and your apprentice too. You will take the phial with you and analyse exactly what it is made of. Then you will report this to me in confidentiality. If anyone asks a question about your venture here today, you will say that you came to me today to check up on me and my condition, and to give me some more of the potion, prepared as the first batch. I told you I had been suffering from bad sleep and headaches, and that was all. You sat down and gave me some advice, and you left. That is what happened today."

Maradif nodded, only half-comprehending what was going on, but he would obey. He was struck by the simple power of this woman. She Who Slew the Witch King. He did not doubt that a bit. He bowed again, silently.

"Now you are excused." She said.

* * *

Faramir stared at the girl. She was a pretty girl, quiet and obedient, and had been a indispensable help to Eowyn. 

And lying here she was, bruised, beaten, and currently unconscious.

He had not told Eowyn yet, trying to attend to the girl by himself the best he could in the house of healing, but this incident unnerved him. When Halandil had carried her home, he had thought she was dead. She certainly looked it. Her face was bruised and bloody, and an arm was broken, and her pulse was weak, so very faint. But he had attended to her the best he could, and her situation was stable for the time being, though he was sure there were many harms he couldn't see. But that was not the worst of it.

Every single one of her eight fingers was swollen to almost twice their normal thickness, like angry red and purple sausages. Some of them were bent in awkward ways, and others were crushed and covered in blood. Her right thumb had no fingernail.

Faramir was no expert, but this was nothing worse than orc torture.

"Who could have done this?" he murmured hoarsely to himself.

"I know not, lord," Halandil said, barely able to keep the anger out of his voice, "but if they wanted to conceal it, they did it clumsily. What I want to know is their motive."

"What has a simple serving girl ever done to deserve this?" Faramir suddenly turned to his guard, "Do you think it could be perhaps the... those people?"

"You mean the race intolerant clan... but I have never seen them do anything so terrible." Halandil shook his head.

"No, no. It cannot be them. The clan kill, but they do not torture like this. All these wounds look fresh, recent. Shaliwar has a life outside the palace… do you think… perhaps…" he trailed off, unsure of what he was trying to say. Everything he could think of just seemed too horrifying to speak aloud.

"Should we tell her lady?"

"No, not yet. I must think about this. Do you have the horses now?"

"Yes, lord." Halandil hesitated, and then started, "I think I saw the culprit. It was a dark-skinned man, who came out of the same alley that I found her in. He… seemed in haste, sir."

Faramir gave the guard a piercing look, "A _dark-skinned_ man. A haradrim, or a variag?"

"Perhaps."

"Do you think he did it?"

"I do not know, sir. I cannot be certain of anything, save that it would take more than one… _man_, to do this."

"Perhaps he saw her, and was going to get help." Faramir tried.

"You may take that view sir, but mine are less agreeable."

Faramir sighed, and unknowingly started pacing the floor. He rubbed his temples with one hand. This was too much. The treaty with Harad. Finding out Eowyn was pregnant _again_. A gypsy doctor from Harad. Dreams of Denethor. And now their haradrim maid, not dead, but tortured.

And he was leaving for Harad in less than a week. Eomer had said he was bypassing Ithilien on his route. He would insist on visiting his sister, of course, and he would celebrate and vex himself to find he could soon be an uncle.

"Halandil?"

"My liege?"

"Is it possible to postpone my leaving?"

"My lord! But you cannot take the risk of being late to the ceremony! King Elessar needs you there! I thought you said it was imperative that Khalifah be established as chief-king of Harad."

Faramir did not answer. Then Halandil spoke gravely.

"You are worried, my lord, about what will happen in your absence."

Faramir nodded distractedly.

"Then entrust that burden to me. I will stay behind. I will protect her lady with my life. I will look after Shaliwar as well. My knowledge of healing is not magnificent, but I am skilled."

Faramir was silent for a moment. And then he spoke sombrely,

"Halandil, do you know that Lady Eowyn is with child?"

The man's expression did not change, but with military tact, he bowed down on one knee, "I had my suspicions sir, but now that I truly know, my life is truly inconsequent. I have sworn to protect, and protect I will."

Faramir place his hands on the man's shoulders, "Rise, noble faithful. I need no oath from you. I trust you well enough to leave you this responsibility." He sighed again, a weary, tired one. His sleep, too, had been disturbed, "But I must leave you another task. There is a haradrim doctor that my wife consults. I want you to keep notice of his movements."

"My lord?"

"He has an apprentice too. Keep an eye on both. I want you to be alert. Be prepared. Too many things are happening at the same time."

* * *

"Why cannot we just kill them all?!" the speaker landed his fist on the heavy table. 

The chief at the head of the table sighed, resting his forehead in his hands. Not again.

"_Because..._" he started, but was not allowed to finish.

"You take far too long in this operation! Subtlety, subtlety, but will it actually get any results?!"

The chief sighed again, and taking out a knife from his robes, stabbed it into the table with a thud. The seated men around it jumped.

"It is working. I have had reports of ill health, depression. The Prince leaves in a week, perhaps a few days. I shall continue monitoring."

"How?" the voice said scornfully, "The servant is dead."

The chief became still. His hand gripped the knife hard.

"_Dead_?" he said calmly.

"Well, she wasn't exactly co-operating. So we tortured her, like you allowed us."

"Yes... _torture..._ so why did she _die_?"

The man became uneasy, "Well, we didn't mean it. I suppose the boys were slightly too... extreme. She just... stopped moving, and we... panicked. She was still –cold- and we didn't know what to do with her, so I sent some boys to dispose of her and make it look like it was done by gondorrim… bigotry."

The chief stood up.

"You did WHAT?" in any other situation, his expression would have been comical, but his fellow tribesmen saw the glint in his eyes that was definitely not amused.

His subordinate babbled, mouthing a load of gibberish. The chief sighed again resignedly, and sat down, his eyes fixed on the tabletop.

Then in a single motion, he plucked his knife from the table and flung it at the man. It spun a shining silver arc in the air and embedded itself into Udun's chest. He keeled over, making a soft thud as he hit the floor. The others seated around the table shivered, but did not move.

The chief stood up again impassively, and walked over to his former comrade, and plucked his knife out.

"I have little patience for incompetence." He said quietly, wiping the blade on the man's shirt, "No more mistakes shall be made, lest we all lose our heads, and not by my blade."

He looked around the congregation, all united for a single purpose – his purpose.

"I am afraid our fragile plans will be subject to changes. Danilbar," He addressed one of the seated, a Rhunic man who before this had been a farmer living near Dagorlad, "I'm afraid your contacts further up north will have to be alerted that action is to be taken by them now. Remember, Rohirric armour is both thick and strong. Much like their people, actually. "

The Rhunic man stood up, a fist to his breast, and bowed, "By tomorrow, it will be done."

* * *

Eowyn dreamt nothing that night. Faramir had come back from his duties, a distant look to his face, but he refused to say when she asked him what was worrying him. He asked her how her day had been, and she ranted a little vaguely about how the camellias she had planted were dying. She suspected he had not heard a word of it, but to know that she was preoccupied with trivial things again was a comfort to him, that she knew. 

"You'll not mind me if I sleep first, do you? It has been a... tiring day." He had said.

"Of course not, my husband. Let me comfort you." She had smiled, played the doting wife, though it pained her to keep secrets from him.

"Your brother will be coming soon. Messengers at Lammedon said he was coming down the north-south road towards Anorien... two more days should do it..."

"You are tired. Sleep. Do not fret over Eomer."

So she let him believe that she was alright, massaged his tense, muscular shoulders, and watched him sleep. She watched the slight frowns that appeared on his face, eventually smoothed over into calm, easy slumber, smiling at the slightly jerky sounds of his breathing – he always swore he never snored.

And she slept too, knowing that as long as he was beside her, she would be alright.

At least, for tonight.

* * *

A/N: _Forgot to apologise for long delay when editing last chapter, so sorry about that, and again, apologies for the long delay. Although it proves I haven't abandoned this fic, or the entirety of fanfictiondotnet altogether, I will be busy for the next few months, so don't be surprised if updates are sparse (but this is nothing new): I have GCSE exams to worry about. Scratch that. The pressure may make me writing-crazy. But I do plan to use my PC less in future: there's just too much on my mind at the moment. To the faithful readers out there (you know who you are) : thankyou. I amtruly grateful for all the helpful, encouraging feedback that I have received. _

_In answer to one of Kingmaker's reviews: I attract unfriendly reviews partly because I (used to) scour fanfiction a LOT. And in doing so, it is inevitable to come across something I don't like. I critisise. I have been known to flame when in a bad mood. But some people are overly sensitive :). Even so, the person responsible for a small number of those is my boyfriend (also an occasional browser and writer), back in the days when we were in denial of our flirting. Bless him. _

* * *


	7. Desperation

Part 7:

(A/N: I do _not_ apologise in advance the name of Eomer's horse. It was a good idea when I first thought of it. This is a long chapter, to which I sacrificed much revision time. But mocks are now over. Enjoy. I will.)

* * *

Eomer spurred his horse into motion, clicking his heels into her flanks. He whistled a tune as he rode along, hearing it echo slightly through the landscape. The day was bright, cold, with dregs of brusque winter in the air, but clear. He was going at a slow pace, and no one was complaining. They were reaching quite steep slopes now, the rocky pedestal of the Lammedon mountains that divided the realms of Gondor and Rohan.

Behind him, the green and white banners of the Riddermark sailed in the crisp breeze. His entourage was small, a select group of trusted ministers and a troop of loyal arms – pray Elbereth he would not need them. It would be a days more travel, less with speed, to reach the fortress of Minas Tirith, and half a days more to reach Ithilien and his sister's new home; and then the best part of three weeks from there to journey through the deserts of Harad to it's capital: Dhakar.

But for now, Eomer put these troubles out of his mind. Instead, he thought about Lothiriel: her sweet serene smile, the gentle persistence when she fretted over things like his health. The daughter of Imrahil, truly, at times he thought she made a better politician than he. Again, he wished she were with him, or better, that he was with her. he never admitted to her how much he despised these… _talks_, these debates, when sworn enemies in one room, forced to be civil to one another until something could be compromised. Swords should be used for fighting an opponent, he always thought, not for threatening them.

Sometimes, he wondered if he would have made a better king than his cousin. Theodred and he had grown up together, played together as children, learnt from the same masters, argued, laughed. In their wrestling matches he had always been stronger, but he always felt Theodred had been sharper in state matters than he. He was the Third Marshal, of lower rank, had always followed orders of others – unless of course it were those of the worm, Grima. Never in his life had he hoped to become King. His first impressions of Aragorn had been something of a pompous vagrant with far too many names.

And then Theodred died, changing everything.

Now here he was… the war was fought, yet pieces still had to be picked up and put back.

One of the soldiers behind him sneezed loudly, to the amusement of the other men. Born and bred on the plains of the Eastfold, they had little experience of mountain terrain. Windshield, his horse stirred under him, and he patted her absently.

Something high up in the snowy peaks caught his eye: movement. He blinked. For an instant he saw a speck of red among the white. He yawned. Probably an animal, a fox or a goat. He didn't have much experience of highland creatures.

The road climbed higher, skirting across the base of the mountain range as it trekked along it. It was fairly narrow, and they went carefully. One of his men had warned him that melted ice on snowy peaks released loose boulders and stones, causing rockfalls. Eomer, on hearing this had wondered why it had to have been said while they were travelling by the aforesaid snowy peaks, in late summer, no less.

Still, it had been an uneventful journey so far. The bright sun shone upon pure white slopes. At the tail of the Lamedon, ahead, he saw the welcoming structure of a beacon tower. He glanced back up at the towering whiteness, and he swore for a second he saw something shine among the rocks and boulders.

_Light reflecting off armour_, the third marshal inside him said.

No, the King of Rohan disagreed, he was being paranoid.

"Thalwed," he muttered to one of the standard bearers behind him, "No one lives up here, do they?"

Thalwed rode up from behind, "As far as we know, my lord, this area is virtually uninhabited. The farms are all in the valley, and the only people living here would be further ahead where the beacon is."

Eomer nodded and said nothing. He glanced up a few times furtively, but all was still. Utterly still.

"You feel it too, sire." Thalwed murmured, "We are being watched."

"Do not panic or make sudden movements. We do not know yet whether they are foe or friend."

Suddenly one of the baggage ponies behind him reared, jittered. Eomer turned his horse and, looking up, saw a man standing, who then ducked suddenly behind a boulder. He had been high up and far away, but Eomer saw his face was dark-skinned, and he had tried to camouflage the red garb he wore, similar to the dress of Rhun and Khand. The man had shouted something.

He had also seen there was more than one man up there.

He raised his palm to calm his companions, and clearing his throat, prepared to call up the mountain and discourse with the black man, as civilised rulers of nations did.

Before he could speak, however, he was silenced by another sound: a deep boom of noise. Far above the ground, an explosion trembled deep into the earth, reverberating through the rock. The Rohirrim men had to still their horses until the vibrations died down.

But then a new noise filled the air: the thundering sound of falling rock. Eomer looked upward for the last time to a grim sight, as huge boulders rolling down the mountainside cast shadows on his troupe. The land was moving beneath their feet.

"_LANDSLIDE!_"

He roared for the men to turn back, but his voice was lost in the din. Still, everyone turned and fled for their lives without hesitation, driving their steeds back down the mountain. He made sure everyone was riding back down the road before he followed them.

Windshield was now galloping down the mountainside, panicking at the sounds of detritus behind her. Eomer spurred her on, holding tightly to her reins.

The Riddermark standards had been dropped, now abandoned flags on the slope, trampled with hoof marks. Eomer had no time to regret as he rode past at a breakneck speed. In front, his men who had been so calm and excited by the prospect of travel were now fleeing for their lives. From the corner of his eye he saw one of the soldiers fall, crushed by a bloody hail of rock, but he could not stop riding to aid at this speed.

He had no time to react either when an unfortunate twist of fate caused Windshield to trip on the other of the banners and lose her footing.

The mare whinnied desperately as she tumbled heavily forward, and Eomer's last memories were of being thrown forward from his steed as the cacophony of the landslide continued to rumble in his ears. The impact was the last thing before all went black.

* * *

Day poured over the stooped back of Faramir, Prince of Ithilien. In his relaxed hand was still a pen, ink drying on the nib.

It was not until his wife touched him gently on the shoulder that he stopped snoring and woke up. His head jerked up from the desk that was his pillow, a papery ink stain still on his cheek.

"Oh… good morning dear." He said breathlessly.

"Faramir." Eowyn said sternly.

"Yes?"

"You seem to have drawn on your own face."

Faramir stood up and inspected a nearby mirror, then proceeded to wipe off the black mark on his cheek. His wife started collecting together the papers on his desk, a frown on her face, muttering to herself how her husband was a full-fledged workaholic. Faramir watched her quirkily. He wanted to spend some quality time with her before he left, but… instead he sighed.

"What on earth possessed you Faramir?" Eowyn suddenly cried, waving his sheaf of notes in the air. He was a little taken aback by her tone, but he had to explain, "You said you'd stop working like this!" she cried again, voice shrill.

Faramir placed his hand upon her shoulders.

"I can explain," he began, "A few hours before you woke… Eafred came to me with a letter from Dol Amroth."

"What is wrong? Has something happened to Lord Imrahil?"

Faramir stopped her, "No, no, my uncle is in the best of health. The only reason he is not coming with us in the campaign is that he has to oversee the building of a new city hall in Belfalas. He wrote that it's nearing completion. His son, my cousin Elphir, has been an ambassador in Harad for the past five years. He has recently received a message from Elphir that there has been… a rebellion."

"A rebellion?"

"Yes, in the very city that we were headed to: Dhakar."

"So what does that mean?" Eowyn asked, concern in her voice.

Faramir put down the letter, "I am not certain."

"You cannot travel there now – it is unsafe. Has Elphir stopped the rebellion? How did it begin? How could he let it, after all these years?"

Another sigh, "I do not know. Elphir has his father's talent for diplomacy, so I do not believe any violence in that city will last long, but…"

Eowyn put the papers down, "There is another answer: why not bring the ceremony here? Or to Gondor, where it could be overseen with security?"

"But it is not our country. We're already interfering far too much – why else would they rebel? I pray that Khalifah has the tenacity to grant his people harmony. Too long, all they've had is pity. Elessar also sent a letter: he says this puts even more pressure on the ceremony to take place quickly."

Eowyn did not speak. She had not dreamed of Denethor that night, with Faramir beside her, though she thought she heard whispers in her sleep – there were no walking visions. Yet she was still unsettled.

"So what does this all mean then?" she stared vacantly.

"It means…" Faramir took a breath, "It means I will have to leave tomorrow night. I'm sorry."

Again, the vacant gaze, accompanied by a nod. He didn't need to apologise. His expression said enough. But she put her arms around him and was silent. There was a grey feeling inside her stomach – foreboding, but all she could do now was hold him.

* * *

"I see you have returned." Eowyn sat at her reception chair. It was noon, and Faramir had left again to supervise urgent business in the city. Her chair was padded, which was comforting for her, and elevated, meaning she was able to gaze downward at the figure before her.

Maradif stood a bowed man, stooped, silent. Eowyn noticed again the worn quality of his clothes, but this time, his posture and manner too was humbled.

"Well, have you your results?" she asked, her voice sharper than she originally intended. Maradif virtually flinched at this. He opened his mouth to speak, but some inner shame made him silent again. He started, voice shaky.

"My dear lady," he muttered, "I fear that when I tell you what you bade me to, I will fall blame to it. Nonetheless, I accept fault for it, and I will accept the penalty."

"What is wrong?"

He hesitated again, and began, "I filtered through the remainder of the phial you gave me, and it was perplexing. The potion contains all the ingredients that are prescribed…" he faded out.

"And?" Eowyn prompted.

"Ah… well… there were some extra elements… that were not prescribed."

"Meaning?"

"My lady the medicine was not lacking anything!" he implored, "It contained everything you needed, you and your child… all the remedies… I put my life into my recipes! … but, yes, it must have been… I must have accidentally added something, when making it, perhaps I knocked something into the mixture…"

"What was added?"

"--It was nothing harmful, and I do not think it will affect the child majorly in any way, even with such a dosage-"

"But what was it?"

Maradif paused again, and then said, "It was a sleeping potion… but not one for inducing sleep. It would certainly explain the sleepwalking you mentioned."

Eowyn nodded calmly, scrutinising the healer's expression closely. She had never classed him as a liar – he'd seemed more the gullible type – yet something about his 'excuse' didn't fit.

"Master, since you say you made that medicine and endangered the well-being of the Lady of Ithilien, I would easily order guards here to execute you." She said curtly, without emotion.

Maradif gave a breathless gasp, and collapsed onto his knees on the floor, too wordless to beg for mercy.

"However," Eowyn turned in her seat to face him, "If my memory serves me correctly, the medicine in my vial was not prepared by you."

"What?"

"On that day, you asked you apprentice to fill the vial, while you and I were still talking. He made the potion and added the ingredients, not you." She said, letting her expression calm him and watching his face break out in relief. But she was not quite done, "Do you not remember that, or were you trying to protect your little protégé?"

"I-I…"

"Never mind." She raised a hand, "I do not trust him, I'll be blunt in that. You may go, leave for Bree if you wish, or stay in Ithilien."

"But what about your baby?"

"I…" Eowyn turned, gazing out the window into the settlements, "I will have to stop relying on charms and omens."

She remained silent for a while, almost brooding, and Maradif wondered whether he should leave. He had not told her everything: his apprentice had left. He who had once called himself Noraliwi at Umbar had taken his things, and several valuable things that were not his, and disappeared. The river was rising with the coming of new seasons, and in a few weeks, Maradif and the rest of the encampment would have to find a new place to live. He had few regrets – those were past his time of life, and he did not critisise himself for unwittingly trusting the boy. No, the boy had been a good companion. Yet he had been involved in other things. Other large, dangerous things. Maradif had minded his own business wisely on these matters, yet there was no denying the truth: he had been used and betrayed.

"Madam… I'm afraid I cannot leave." He said, mustering his courage.

"Ah… the camp is flooded?"

"No. I wish to stay here by your side for one night only. It is to do with the matter of your welfare. Please do not ask me questions until I have explained my exact reasons." And he fixed his eyes on her feet and explained.

* * *

Eowyn slept fitfully that night. Once again Faramir was busy and staying away from home – this time his excuse was that he personally involved in a kidnap/assault investigation – but this time she had not rebuked him and went to her own chamber without complaint. If he wanted to play watchmen, tonight she would not stop him.

She had organised Maradif a guest room, feeling that she owed him something. He had done her some service with a good heart, if poor results.

At some time past midnight, she woke. The window had been open and cold night air shivered on her skin. She got up from her warm bed and tugged the shutter closed. Beside her bed was a newly prepared bottle of medicine that Maradif had brought for her, and he had explained earlier on why it was half empty.

Tonight, her head was clear.

In cool readiness she left her chamber and walked along familiar corridors. In nothing but a nightdress and a long woollen robe, she went into the drawing room.

The girl was not there, but Denethor was, sitting in his usual place. Eowyn glanced at the open window behind him. It lead to the balcony that faced the city's business district. It had been that easy. She stood in front of him as he sat in the throne-like chair, calm, cool, collected, and smiled inwardly to see that his usual sneer was wavering in the face of her composure.

"Ah, _my daughter_, you have returned." He said in his thick, throaty voice.

Eowyn smiled, and the subsequent flicker of annoyance and surprise that appeared on the Spirit of Denethor pleased her even more. How could she had been such a fool! To be gulled and almost driven mad by such a cheap ploy! Denethor indeed! Even his skin was wrong.

She glanced towards the dark of the open door, seeing Maradif standing there, hiding and watching, and she gave the slightest of nods. His shadow disappeared.

Returning her attention to the seated spectre, she flashed her teeth in a courteous greeting, "Hail, oh my father, worthy one, noble lord, Denethor, son of Ecthelion."

_He must know by now_, she thought, as the seated figure stirred uncomfortably, _he must know that I know_.

Yet Denethor recovered, "I had thought you would have thrown yourself off a tower by now. You, and that spawn in your belly."

Eowyn winced at this, but continued with infinite graciousness. She threw herself dramatically at the feet of the seated, and grasped his hand as if an adoring child, "Oh, my dear father, I know truly that you do not mean this. You do love your son! And you love me too! Oh father, I know that crusty exterior hides a loveable old soul! You can smile, and you have smiled before! Oh will you not smile on us?" and she flashed her most adorable smile. To see the look on the man's face was worth throwing away that piece of dignity.

Denethor the Evil's fingers were itching – Eowyn could see thoughts calculating behind those eyes as she smirked at them and held his hand lovingly. His make-up was poorly done, they _really_ didn't think she would notice, and with that drug she really hadn't. Maradif had said with the right dosage a man could confuse his wife and his mother. But he had realised by now tonight he could not put on his play, and now, surely under those old grey robes (such _bad_ costuming) he would surely produce a knife or a garrotte…

Eowyn reached up her hand and caressed his cheek, trying hard to smile as she did so. He flinched, but she continued, and then, in one instant, she pulled off his wig.

Denethor lunged forward, his fingers reaching for Eowyn's head – did he plan to snap her neck or strangle her to make it look like an accident? – but she leapt back, and from her own nightrobe, she had not forgotten her swordsmanship…

Her hand was quicker. The tip of a long steel blade now pointed at the man's throat. He was not Denethor. He had never been. He also had no hair now.

Eowyn looked at the man sitting in the chair, her face one of disgusted contempt. She brandished the grey haired wig away from her, and then hurled it at his feet.

"I remember you." She said quietly, as he sat unmoving, her blade still at his neck, "You name is Noraliwi. Or rather, it is not. The Healer's Apprentice, poor, penniless and humble; yet in your ear you wore a jewel of sapphire and your grasp of herbal lore, and poison, is formidable." There was a ping as she tapped her sword tip against the earring, and the man flinched again.

"Who do you work for? Speak!" she cried at him, threatening him with her sword.

He leaned calmly back in the chair, and put his hands together daintily, "I work for myself. Maradif Ar-Shahrazad does not count. And tonight, if you kill me, fair lady, it will be futile. This is your last stand, but we have already made ours. By the way, my name _is_ Noraliwi, son of Hersherod. "

"What are you doing? Why have you been doing this?"

"Why?" Noraliwi laughed, "Do you really not know, or are you just pretending? I see you really want to know this, else you would have called guards inside the palace long ago. To be frank, this isn't much of a palace. I'd bet Elessar's would put this to shame. Shame he's on the throne, really. Do you know, if he had not become King, and Boromir were gone, it would be your husband ruling all of these lands? Although perhaps not. You would worry about his workload." The haradrim man sneered, "He was too weak. And still is. And Boromir would beat him at everything. And to everything. Perhaps even to you."

Eowyn, as astounded as she was by this man's grasp of history, was not deterred, "Tell me why."

Noraliwi leaned forward, voice low, "You have enthralled my nation."

"We most certainly have not! You have been freed! You should be thankful!" Eowyn cried.

"Exactly! We are to be eternally thankful to your gracious nations! You, who defeated Annatar, Sauron; you with better blood in your veins and whiter skin on your face, to whom we owe an eternal debt for your _charity_! And we are to smile and nod at your feet when you throw us scraps of meat, and beckon to your every call. I do not call this freedom. I call this humiliation. We are thralls."

Eowyn was confounded, she couldn't help it, "But, power is being given back to your nations. My husband is part of the ceremony – he wrote the treaty – that will return proper governing to your lands."

"With a governor that _you_ chose. What life is this?"

"It will be a better life than the one you had under Sauron, living and fighting alongside orcs!" she yelled at him, and he had no answer. For a moment she felt pity for this man, this boy. He was much younger than she originally thought, perhaps twenty, but not yet thirty. But it was a moment, and the moment passed.

"So. you felt humiliated. And you felt the need to do _this_ to me." She spat at him.

Noraliwi smiled, "Good plan, no? Tell me, there _was_ a point when you wanted to commit suicide, no? You die, Faramir cracks and crumbles, Elessar's major ally is removed. Then we would do the same to Rohan, Eriador, Dol Amroth… and finally Gondor. Attack them at the home; kill them from inside…" he laughed, "It was a good plan. But perhaps we didn't look into it enough."

"Did it not tire you to dress up every night?" Eowyn said dryly.

The man laughed again, a coarse vulgar sound, "In my youth, I was an actor and a con artist. No, far tougher was conjuring up that little daughter of yours! I never lied a word to you about her. I never even said she was your daughter – you discovered that for yourself! _She is as much mine as she is yours_!"

For a sickening moment, Eowyn was caught unexpectedly, "Is she alright?" she said weakly.

He looked at her expression and laughed again. Then, in one fell movement, he ducked under her blade and with his foot kicked her hard in the chest. He had aimed for her stomach, but she too had moved. From his own clothes, he produced a long knife, and he swung it around him in an arc.

Eowyn breathed away the pain, hoping her child was safe. Her grip on her sword was tight, she recovered her stance, and stood facing him again. He was armed now, with a knife, not a sword. In arms, he was at a disadvantage, but the less weight meant he could move faster.

But she grinned briefly to herself. She had not been called Shieldmaiden of Rohan for nothing.

They both attacked at the same time, lunging for each other with gritty desperation. Metal clanged. Eowyn forced him back first, with sheer strength, but then found herself having to block his moves, light and feathery as they were. She could not stop herself from enjoying the movement, the pulsing of her limbs, and the sheer sharp risk of it…

She swung her angled blade at neck level, but Noraliwi blocked that with his knife, and pushed her own sword towards her face. She stepped left and pulled her sword out of the lock, the rustic dragging sound of the two blades together echoing through the room.

Thrust, parry, thrust, parry. She shouldn't be doing this: she was pregnant.

And that thought came too soon. For a fraction of a second she lost her concentration and too late found shining steel glimmering, pressed to her throat. She had underestimated his swordsmanship.

"I suppose you'll lose nothing by killing me now?" she said, voice unsteady but calm. She had seen Maradif's shadow return to the hide of the door. He had nodded.

Noraliwi shrugged, "Nothing, everything. To me, it is now all the same. You husband may still attend his little ceremony, but your brother will not."

"What do you mean?!" her voice shook this time.

He shrugged again, brushing his knife against her skin gently, "I guess perhaps it was an act of, oh, what is the word: desperation. After all, you do not think we can succeed. Our own people do not believe we can succeed, but they were too submitting, no patriotism. They gave in to you." He sighed mournfully, "When Denethor saw his own city burning around him, he still had to make his own pyre flame."

Eowyn was getting tired of talk. Slowly, she raised her foot, and with the ball of her heel, she kicked him firmly in the groin.

Behind her, Halandil and a guard of seven men rushed in, halted, and watched in mild amusement as this criminal hobbled before them, groaning in pain.

"I am being merciful, Master Noraliwi. I cannot imagine what Faramir would do if he knew you had impersonated his father to drive his family insane, but I am sure we will find out."

Eowyn nodded, and they advanced on the fake Denethor. But then, he straightened up and threw his knife at Eowyn. Several guards tried to throw themselves in front of her, and were only slightly disappointed when she stepped aside and it embedded itself into the wallpaper.

When they turned around, the wigless 'Denethor' had leapt out the window and was in the middle of escaping. Several men leapt after him, and Eowyn watched dazedly as a moonlight chase unfurled on the rooftops of Emyn Arnen. Noraliwi had escaped, for now.

Halandil bowed to Eowyn, and nodded, "We'll find him. I do not think he will trouble you again."

But she was still unsettled, "But is that because he no longer needs to? He mentioned my brother…"

"Ah."

"What is it? Is it about Eomer?"

Halandil was grave, "Minutes before I came here, there was a message for you and his lordship from Anorien, the beacon there. They said… your brother and his men had been caught in a landslide this morning. I think we have just found the person responsible."


	8. The Morning After the Night Before

Once again, no amount of apologies can express enough the eight month debt between these chapters. Exams over with, I can only look to the results warily. Enjoy the chapter, readers that are left. But I am determined to finish this fic, no matter how long it takes.

* * *

Part 8: 

"Had it come to this?" Faramir stared at the knife. Brushing away the debris of wall plaster from its blade (infinitely grateful it had not been the blood of his wife) he could see it was of Rhunic make; strong, sturdy, it had not been made for someone inconsequential. The night's scuffle had been sorted with great organisation. Now letters had been sent to all corners of Middle earth. As well as armies of mankind, Legolas and Gimli had both pledged a bow and an axe respectively to mankind's cause. Khalifah would be both happy and shocked to learn his allies were not men alone.

"Should you not be pleased?" Eowyn said serenely, lounging back in her favourite armchair once more as the warm reality of morning played on her face. It washed away all the nightmares.

"Oh yes." A frown appeared on his face, "Why?"

"Well, worse than kill them, inciting revenge, we have essentially, and successfully, humiliated an important figurehead in their operations. The fox has had to run back to his den with his tail between his legs, and what cubs could follow such a leader? Master Noraliwi was no pawn – he himself freely boasted that. Rather, it was his master who became the pawn. Cruel, wouldn't you say Master Maradif?"

The former medicine man gave a small sad smile from his chair, "A tutor must always be happy when an apprentice excels him."

Eowyn laughed delicately with him, apologising for the taunt, before turning back to her husband, "Now my lord, what will you do now?"

Faramir grimaced. His wife's tone was stark, purposeful, and it seemed strange to his ears, to hear her strength after such a trial, "Wait for your brother to arrive on his stretcher – I mean- sedan. I await his roaring entrance with cotton in my ears. I should have known even _unnatural_ disasters cannot best King Eomer Eadig."

Eowyn laughed, a loud and genuine laugh. It seemed that suddenly everything in the world was beautiful, fresh, clean. Every fear and problem and worry that had ever scarred a wrinkle on her face had been wiped clean and clear from the world. She had never been so alive for this world – now doubly so, with a daugh- a _child_ along the way. And her brother was alive. But that still didn't change the fact that soon, Faramir would be leaving. Yet still she laughed. Aye, it was probably mood swings.

Her husband was pleasantly surprised by the sound. It suddenly occurred to him just exactly _how much_ he would miss her during his absence.

Perhaps someday, women would actively take part in politics, and he would have an excuse to take her along. Faramir smiled inwardly at this thought.

A short epistle had arrived that morning (along with the exhausted messenger who, gasping, communicated that Eomer was alive with a broken leg) that the rebellion had been stopped. The ringleaders of the coup were mainly petty barons who had lost under the new regime, and wanted to use the difference of race to stir strife and discord within the Haradrim peoples. Elphir, son of Imrahil, had armed his men and rounded up and arrested the rebels for question, yet a few of the ringleaders had managed to escape, with some outside help. No doubt they were connected to this covert group that Noraliwi organised.

Anger welled up suddenly inside Faramir when he thought again of what this man had done. Oh, he was a diplomat, a humanitarian at heart, but this man had incurred his wrath, as it were, and he swore to be merciless. He had plotted against his country, fair enough, but to hurt his wife and unborn child in this undignified manner, and his brother-in-law no less, that was incomprehensible.

And he had also slurred his father. Noraliwi had dishonoured Denethor, this could not be denied. Faramir wondered if this crime bothered him as much as the others and felt a slight prick of guilt when he realised, it didn't.

"You cannot forgive him." Eowyn said, her surprisingly harsh tone breaking his stream of thought. He jumped.

"Who?"

"You know who, Noraliwi. What he did to us, to you, was deplorable, was it not, Faramir? None can forgive him."

Faramir nodded, his clear eyes drifting to gaze at something far away and unseen, "Never." He said quietly.

* * *

The Palantir was innocent looking from afar, black and smooth like a larger version of a child's marble. Yet Faramir knew better than to watch it up close. He still remembered the first time he looked into his father's at Minas Tirith, years ago, after Elessar's coronation. 

The scarring red image of the hands had haunted him for months.

So the false Denethor had been exposed, yet it still did not bring relief to him. Yet again, as he had been doing for a long time, Faramir cast his mind back for a memory, any memory of his childhood that had his father and that was happy. There were many, he knew there were, yet it always seemed increasingly difficult to remember them. He could reminisce for ages of happy times with Boromir – ah, those were the days – summer afternoons of archery, swordplay, fishing and swimming in the freezing cold river and nearly drowning, how they laughed… yet in nearly all of these perfect timepieces, there was a mar, a blemish. Sometimes, the memory would be spoiled by injury, dispute, rain… yet in far too many of them, it was always the interrupting voice of one angry, troubled man who never respected his younger son.

He didn't know why this palantir had been kept. Perhaps Elessar thought these last few true masterworks, tributes to the Elven era, could still prove useful in the New Kingdoms, yet all they served were as museum pieces and reminders of dark times long ago.

He squeezed his eyes shut, massaging his tired mind with his knuckles, when a yell echoing through the corridors sent him running. Leaping to his feet, he sped through the corridors, inhaling deeply. It had been a woman's cry.

Following the sound, he ran to the houses of healing, and in the doorway he stopped still, shocked by the sight that met him.

Eowyn was there already, and turned to him, and he saw that she was equally stunned by this. She stood, her regality taken aback as Shaliwar, her maid, knelt on the floor before her, weeping loudly and openly as she brushed Eowyn's skirts with her sad, bandaged fingers, bloodstains still present and transferring to the lady's crisp white dress. It seemed the whole ward was unmoving in its silence. Making eye contact with the few nurses standing there, Faramir ushered them out without words.

Shaliwar gave an unintelligible wail, her voice cracking as she muttered in her own language and sometimes in fragmented Westron. The maid had awoken from her slumber.

Again and again, Faramir caught the words '_forgive me_'.

Maradif, now ever present at Eowyn's side, suddenly approached the broken girl sympathetically. Faramir was astonished to see that the healer too was weeping. The man knelt down by the girl, and held her by her shoulders and talked to her in a foreign tongue, his voice gentle and soft. She replied, nodding now and then to his questions; and then he gave a great cry and held her swiftly close to him in a tight embrace. She complied, crying freely as she held him with her broken fingers.

Faramir and Eowyn glanced at each other, but said nothing.

After a minute of this, Maradif pulled away and, still on his knees, turned to Eowyn, and to her shock, he bowed, that he touched his forehead to the ground before her feet.

"Master," she said, "Please."

But again he genuflected, and though she bent to stop him he did so a third time. Then he explained, his voice sore and frantic.

"My lady. That girl there before you, for all she has done, you must forgive her, for all she has done for and against you… please," his voice broke hoarse, and then he pointed towards Shaliwar and whispered, "That girl is my daughter."

Through the choking silence, there was a quiet intake of breath. Faramir coughed hesitantly.

"Your –daughter-?" Eowyn murmured, eyes wide.

"Yes! I have found her, my youngest daughter, named at her birth Shal-eliawar Ar-Shahrazad." His face was one of deep but grieved mirth, and Eowyn remembered what he had told her before: _my daughters married men who went to war and never came back. _The man's face grew grim,"I have not seen her in twenty-two years. Yet today, my first meeting with her - I recognised her face! Lady! I give you my eternal debt and gratitude, I will owe you everything if you will forgive what she has done."

"What exactly has she done!" Faramir yelled, his frustration getting the better of him.

Shal-eliawar Ar-Shahrazad looked up at him with black, unblinking eyes. She bowed once and then turned to Eowyn. Faramir had never heard her talk so much before – her voice was strange and unfamiliar, yet steady:

"It was I, Lady, I told him you were with child. I told you to go to the medicine man – but I swear at that time I did not know he was my father!" she broke off suddenly, and her father continued explaining on her behalf.

"He wooed her, lady. He wooed her. She was his contact inside the palace, and spy. She let him know when you were alone so he could play his –ruse-."

Eowyn was aghast, Faramir saw that well, not just by the betrayal, but just simply how _simple_ it had been. Simple? – alas, it had been fiendishly elaborate in its simplicity. Find out when Eowyn was alone, drug her, and then scare her to death. How did Noraliwi expect it to work? For Eowyn to kill herself? But it nearly did, he told himself, as he saw Eowyn's fingers absently caress her swollen belly, it nearly did.

"And the girl," her voice was cool, "my 'daughter'?"

Shaliwar tried to speak and then stopped, her guilty eyes only on the floor. She spoke in her own tongue and Maradif translated.

"You… you mentioned it in front of him – during your first session with me you said casually that you -your husband- desired a baby girl."

Shaliwar added, voice heavy, "I-I met a girl in the town one day with blonde hair and pale eyes who resembled you a little. Her mother was a widow, and lived alone. I told him where they lived. He had the right tools and drugs to get what he wanted out of her."

This time Faramir gasped.

"Last night! - I was called out again because every night this week there have been complaints of nightly spectres, burglars, rooftop gallivanters!" he gave a humourless laugh, "The widow's name was Sarienne – her daughter had gone missing for four days and had recently returned, reappearing in her bed complaining of nightmares: nightmares in which men would come her window and take her and force her to play with a White Queen."

Eowyn went pale, "But the girl wasn't there last night."

Faramir smiled sheepishly, "That was because I had one of my men stand guard by her window all night. The kidnappers decided not to risk it."

At the image of this foolishly valiant gesture, Eowyn laughed out loud. But it was shortlived. Maradif and his long-lost daughter still kneeled before her feet. Eowyn looked down upon them without pity or sympathy, instead, a distanced courtesy divided them.

"Master, I shall not hold any hostility towards you or your kin. You were both used – I look at her hands and I wonder _how_…"

"Twiglets." Maradif answered in a low murmur.

"I beg your pardon?"

Faramir cut in, "I have heard of them. That is what they are nicknamed in Khand and south Rhun. It is a torture device of several thick rods or sticks, tied together in a ropeladder-like form. Slid between the fingers, they are then pulled tight, crushing the fingers together."

"They tortured her because she refused to tell them any more about you." Maradif muttered, "They wanted her to drug you every night, a slow poison that would help their plans."

Eowyn winced, and then sighed, "I guess… all of us here have been betrayed one way or another. I cannot fully forgive Shaliwar for what she did, but I think she has suffered enough for further punishment. Perhaps, Maradif, your medicinal skills can be put to good use now."

The Haradrim man nodded, "Perhaps, it is also time again to realise my dream of Eriador. At least, this time, I will have a reliable apprentice to keep me companion." He looked warmly at his daughter.

Eowyn smiled sadly, "Then I wish you all the best."

* * *

After clearing the commotion of the House of Healing, Faramir and Eowyn departed together, for their own chambers. 

"This is simply too much," said she.

"Perhaps, but at least a few things are falling into place. Noraliwi will be caught. It is only a matter of time. I have some of my best rangers tracking him - he'll not get far." Faramir paused,"We will, I suppose, have to find you a new maid."

She nodded absently, and a few moments passed in silence between them as they walked slowly through the palace halls.

Then, suddenly, "Faramir, don't go."

The reply was delayed but firm, "I must."

And the silence returned at that moment, when there was nothing more to be said. Eowyn knew she could not stop him because if their roles were reversed, he would be unable to sway her at all. She wondered for a moment if Arwen was feeling the same way she did. But Arwen had not gone through the torturous few days that she had, the dreams, the realisations… would Arwen have managed to overcome these situations, in her place?

Suddenly, a young messenger approached Faramir, breathless from running into the hall.

"I bring word from the elf Legolas of Ithilien. He is on the road to Emyn Arnen, coming here today, in a few hours. He also brings King Eomer of Rohan with him."

"Legolas? The Greenleaf? With Eomer?"

"Aye sir. He sends word that his lordship Eomer is alive and well after the landslide…" the messenger hesitated, " He also has a personal word for her lady 'But please do not comment on the fact your brother is on a stretcher', were his exact words." He finished shyly. Eowyn smiled graciously.

"We have already received word of Eomer's safety, but not that he would still be coming here. We shall welcome him, and Lord Legolas with the highest honour."

The messenger bowed, and left.

"Well… it seems your brother is truly invincible." Faramir concluded dryly.

"I would say, more stubborn than anything else." Eowyn replied, "I do pity Legolas, however, to have to take charge of him. He did not say why he was coming. I am not at all surprised Eomer still insists on travelling out to Harad, even if it means with the troops of his sister's husband and not his own. Yet for Legolas to come as well?"

"It is strange. Legolas said he wished no part in the Harad proceedings. Your brother: one cannot blame him. After that mountaineering disaster, it would be difficult to re-gather men of his own. He'll have to rely on the amiability of his brother-in-law. I would suggest you not mention that fact either."

* * *

The steward of Ithilien and his lady were sitting down to a evening meal of beef and wine later that night, conversing lightly and listening to a resident bard, as was their custom, when their calm repast was interruptedabruptly by the huge antique wooden doors of the dining hall swinging open, and the stone walls immediately filled with the raucous voice of King Eomer of Rohan and his small and timid entourage. 

"I smell beef! Would someonemake hasteand give me a plate!" were his first words upon entering the hall.

Faramir sighed and smiled to himself. His wife stood up, abandoning her dish, and greeted her brother with more than the usual courtesy.

"Brother! You have no idea how much it gladdens me to see you well!" and she embraced him. Unable to stand, he was sitting in a wheebarrow-like construction that supported his leg and enabled him to push himself along.

"I hardly call this 'well'," he said gruffly, reluctantly returning the embrace from his sedentary position, "The medic said I would not be able to walk for another two months. Two months! It wouldn't matter so much, as I am of the Riddermark, but not even I can sit upon a horse so long! Still, better a horse than this chair."

"And you _still_ insist on riding out?" She raised an eyebrow.

"I cannot walk, but it does not mean I'm dead! I am still the King of Rohan, and I am representing her!"

Faramir shook his head, laughing gently to himself and then calling servants to make their new guests welcome.

"I do not think anyone can ignore that fact." A new voice spoke up, light and gentle, but with the firm tone of a nobleman.

"Legolas!" Eowyn greeted him warmly, "I did not think Elven camouflage would make it so hard to notice you in a palace hall!"

"I was tending my horse, Lady, I only entered a few moments ago," the tall elf lord bowed to Eowyn and Faramir, "My friends, and neighbours too, it seems. I trust you are well. I hope my continued trespass upon your lands is not an inconvenience." Unlike the bright court garb his friends now wore, Legolas still dressed in forest colours; though the cut of the fabrics were undoubtedly finer, and a silver circlet now sat on his brow, his style was unchanged.

"Not at all, old friend." Faramir said, returning the bow, "We welcome your realm. It is good to have a friend within a day's reach."

"That is mainly my reason for coming. There was not escort large enough to bring his majesty over there to your hall, and he bluntly refused to turn back for Edoras, so I offered to accompany him here."

"I suppose I should thank you for that," Eomer said, "it is not easy to deal with me I'm afraid. I know not how Lothiriel puts up with me. I suppose it is that infamous Elven patience in her veins."

He laughed merrily, and the others joined in. Eowyn invited the new arrivals to sit at the table, and ordered more meat and wine brought in. She knew her brother's appetite well. As the food was brought in and laid down, the guests began to eat ravenously.

Legolas, wincing at Eomer's appetite, spoke up, "I also have another offer to make while I am here. I have heard of the… problems Lady Eowyn has encountered recently. Faramir, I have no wife, but I can understand well the concerns you have for her. So I offer my guardianship over this house while you are gone.

"I do not mean to undermine you, Lady Eowyn, and your position here," he continued, as Eowyn opened her mouth to speak, "I know well your capability and though you for one definitely _can_ cope without a man about the house, I would still like to remain and help you, should there be any… mishaps. A pregnant woman should not have to deal with things alone."

Seeing the curious, almost sceptical look on Faramir's face, he added hastily, " I have only honourable intentions to your wife, lord Faramir."

Faramir said, "My friend, I would not suspect you. I am more than happy, not to mention relieved, at your offer. If my wife feels the same, it is up to her to accept."

"I am honoured at Legolas' generosity." Eowyn said delicately, sipping her wine, "I'm afraid there is no polite way for me to refuse." Putting the cup down, she said, "But why remain here, like a domestic, when you can crusade off into the south with your comrades? "

He smiled his enigmatic smile, "What purpose is there, for me, an Elf that remembers the older years, to try and wriggle deeper into the world of mankind? I will always aid my friends, but in this new world, there is no place for me. Besides," He chuckled, "It would not be the same without my dwarven counterpart." Eowyn saw the sadness in his face, though his voice was cheerful. Though he had resisted the call of the sea for so long, she was certain that not all of his subjects and friends in his small realm would be as strong as he. To live, secluded from kin, in a land of Men, knowing he would live to see it all end! She felt his loneliness, but knew she could never understand it truly.

Eomer broke her train of thoughts, "I would not have an elf take my place either. The treaty wants my hand to sign it, therefore my hand needs to be in Dhakar at the ceremony. Since my hand is attached to the rest of me, I feel obliged to go." He smiled smugly, "But enough talk of political matters! My lady Eowyn and dearest sister, I toast you, and Faramir, and wish you luck in becoming parents. I, myself, look forward to my new role as uncle and I hope Eowyn will not try too hard to shirk the child away from my malign influence!"

There was indulgent laughter, then everyone raised their glass, "To Eowyn!"

Eowyn beamed, feeling a peaceful happiness radiating throughout. Finally, she thought, it was over.

* * *

Perhaps it was, but not for some. Far away from the happy halls of Emyn Arnen, there was a gathering of another kind. 

On a tattered board of a makeshift table lay a crudely sketched map of the valley slope from a row of mountains. It was difficult to see it, as the shelter in which it was situated seemed to be made from a very thick carpet, supported bywoodenpillars into a hastily assembled marquee.

A dark, roughly dressed man sat down at the empty space between two men who looked no better than him for wear. Many of them sported ugly bruises, and some, bandages. None of them seemed to be eager to be there.

"Ezekh," the Chief speaker said, but his voice now had a weariness to it, like one who has been travelling constantly and craving a few night's sleep, "How many of your men are left?"

The man called Ezekh raised his head uneasily, "Sir, remember we were few to start with. We sustained many injuries, and the ones who survived are in hiding. It will take time to prepare the men again. I have lost many of my finest warriors to the Prince from Dol Amroth and his militia. I must beg pardon once again," he bowed his head, "I should have conducted the rebellion with more expertise and wisdom, my general."

"Give me an estimate." The Chief sighed, massaging his temple. The ear that once wore the sapphire was hacked and raw, the fleshy lobe that bore the earring missing. A small price to pay, but he was able to finally escape the Ithilien Royal Guard.

"I would say… two hundred, perhaps eighty more at best if the others recover well," the chieftain looked wary for a moment, "But, lord, I must confess, there are few left who would willingly act on your counsel again. There are … mutterings. It will prove difficult to get them to do your bidding a second time."

Noraliwi thrashed his fist on the tiny table, which shook violently.

"Find the gossipmongers, and flay them alive before the others!" he roared, "Then tell them it is better to DIE for your beliefs, than live as cowardly neighbours among those depraved wantons who have stolen your homelands and smile false generosity at your face!"

There was a nervous silence, and Ezekh accepted the order as silently as possible.

"Danilbar." Noraliwi spoke again after several moments, "What of your situation?"

Danilbar was bruised heavily in the jaw, but he bowed and spoke clearly, "After the assault on the Rohirric ambassadors, many of my men were hunted down by the surviving horsemen in revenge. Eight of my bravest men died trying to set off the gunpowder, either caught in the blast or in the rubble that ensued." He bowed his head, but continued, "However, my men are still loyal to you. Though the Eadig was not killed, he is incapacitated – he cannot walk. A small victory." He gave a grim smile, "My men who were not involved in the ambush are not many, but they are armed and healthy. And ready."

A small gleam came into Noraliwi's eyes. Perhaps it was the exhaustion, or the gripping paranoia that was coming over him – since the debacle with Eowyn, he too had been having dreams involving the Steward of Gondor. Dreams, no, it was more nightmares. It seemed that Denethor was haunting him. Even now he felt a cold chill at his back that he could not place. And all the time the rangers of the Kingdoms were tracking him. He had not slept for five days. Soldiers, Denethor, all hunting him, and sometimes, he imagined he saw a child that looked like Eowyn, also following, always staring at him. He shuddered inwardly. But it would be over soon. He would show them his fortitude, his will, even if it killed him.

"M-my lord, what are you planning?" said another man, Lannat.

Noraliwi placed his hands, palms down, onto the surface of the table and took a deep breath. His eyes glittered strangely.

"We will leave them with a final message. We will write it in blood."

And, staring into the hollow, stunned expressions of his men, he smiled.

"This is not over."


	9. Evening Interlude

Part 9

Around Middle Earth, things were moving.

This is an obvious, vague remark. Things move everyday: trees, people, Dark Lord's armies…

On this day, the Markets of Ithilien bustled with new wares, food and chattel, and sought after fresh gossip, shipped in from Umbar, Osgiliath, Gondor and all about the Northern Lands.

Stirring in a secret location further south, a man of the Haradrim race named Noraliwi led a group of his men through the guarded forests, to prepare themselves for when the time came. Others moved over the hills, hiding in crags that overlooked the Harad road in the valley below. Once in position, they would not stir until the signal came.

Around Rohan, horsemen messengers rode across the green plains, delivering messages to Queen Lothiriel of Edoras, and the Lords of the Westfold and Helm's Deep, bringing news of their King Eomer, currently in the land of Ithilien.

And meanwhile, the City of Minas Tirith lay in a state of anticipation. Arwen Undomiel, High Queen of Gondor and the Reunified Kingdoms, sat cradling her small son in the open balcony window of the royal home. Eldarion fidgeted restlessly with a small toy sheep on her lap, asshe stared outside, motionlessly . The procession below wove through the layered streets of the stone city. At the head, her husband rode tall and proud, the ceremonial winged crown of the Kingdoms upon his dark head. She smiled inwardly, as she knew how much he hated wearing the damned heavy thing.

The crowds had gathered, as they always did when a royal parade came in sight. She could see several children throwing ribbons and coloured papers, and older men and women cheering.

As the huge train of Heralds, ministers and knights came to the gates, they paused, waiting for the huge mithril-fortified doors to be opened. Arwen stood up so she could see better, holding up Eldarion that he could watch his father. The crowds were silent, as King Aragorn Elessar made a small indulging speech, and clapped when he finished. Then, Arwen watched as he turned his horse around so that he faced her from her balcony view.

Smiling, as the people watched, he performed a lavish bow from atop his horse to her. Arwen, hoisting her son onto her hip, returned it, inclining her head. There was a polite cheer.

Then, just before he turned to leave, he pressed his fingers to his lips, and sent a kiss in her direction, his arm saluting her.

She laughed, and blew a kiss back, before watching him ride through the gates onto the plains outside, his men following him on their path to another foreign land, another quest, another adventure.

And she sat down once more at her velvet cushioned chair, not daring to wish that she was there with her husband, not daring to yearn that she was beside him, helping him in his work. She did her Queenly tasks, attending her king, looking after the household, not interfering with his duties…

So, sighing, she put down her son and did her duty. Taking some unfinished embroidery from a shelf, she worked, as she prepared herself for this next task: to wait.

* * *

Eowyn eyed her husbands apparel critically, sometimes pausing to wipe at a non-existent speck of dust, as the two of them ate breakfast together in the drawing room. They were joined by Legolas, who sat at the far side of the breakfast table, and Eomer, whose voracious appetite did not extend to dairy products. 

"Pah, eggs again. I despise eggs." He said, seeing the customary boiled egg upon his plate, "Nurse fed me too many of them when I was an infant. I have refused to eat them since the age of four."

"That is a shame," said Faramir, "All our fresh produce is local, and of very good quality. This land is renowned for her climate and the crops and food it brings."

"I know that well." Legolas said, biting into his roll of raisin bread and butter, "In the woodland we do not have granaries and pantries of such a great quantity. There is not that much land to grow food, yet this is a trifling problem, as our numbers are few, and our appetites small," he glanced at Eomer's plate, already obscured by the pile of sausages, bread and fruit upon it, "Still, I shall be sorry to leave this rich cuisine behind."

"Then don't return home!" Eomer cried, "Come with us. Perhaps you feel insignificant because you will not sign the treaty, but your presence will be valued!"

"Indeed," said Faramir, "After all, it was you who helped us choose Khalifah as instated head of that country. If you and Gimli were both there, it would show unity between the races of all kinds in Middle earth."

"This is an idea worth thinking about," Eowyn spoke up, "But where is our worthy friend, Gimli, son of Gloin?"

"Unfortunately, my dwarven compatriot cannot be here with us." Legolas said, peeling himself an orange, "He is spending some well earned holiday at the Caves. I do believe he is trying to find a wife. Perhaps I should join him. These are times of Man, after all, and I am no longer needed."

"Nonsense! The more the merrier!" Eomer cried, "It will be just like the Pelennor, we allies in battle once again!" but immediately after saying this, he fell silent, perhaps remembering a certain beloved man, both uncle and father to him, that he had lost forever at that same battle.

"I seem to recall I was recuperating at the time," Faramir said shyly, glancing at his smiling wife, who kissed him on the cheek and said quietly,

"It is not as if you did not win a victory of your own there."

Faramir grinned, but said to Legolas, "That was a fine day though. I heard much of your valour too, Lord Legolas. There was that amazing story of how you single-handedly tackled that oliphaunt by climbing onto its back, shooting it full of arrows and sliding down the trunk onto the earth as the beast fell!"

Legolas chuckled, "To Gimli, it still only counted as one. I cannot disprove that story as false, but the tongues of people like to exaggerate stories. Prince Eldarion's nurse is one of those people." He said, humour in his eyes, much to the mirth of Faramir, before standing up, "Come now, Eomer and Faramir, you leave later this day. Surely you must prepare the things you need on this long trek?"

"Oh!" Eowyn cried, her hands to her face, "Must you leave so soon?"

Faramir couldn't help noticing her voice was a little fractured, "It will not be as long as you think." He said softly, "I will be back before you can realise, in time to greet the little one's arrival. Besides, since our Elf Lord friend shall not be coming with us, you will have him here to keep you company."

Legolas performed a short bow, "Madam, I am at your every whim and call." He said grandly.

* * *

Ezekh bowed, "My lord, Danilbar's men are safely hidden, and Lannat's are positioning themselves as we speak. I… have practised my task to perfection." 

"Good, good. The plan will come to pass."

Uncertainty skirted across Ezekh's face, "My Lord, I- I do not mean to lack confidence in your scheme, but… can this work?"

Noraliwi looked hard into the jittery man's face. His mind was cloudy, but this plan was beautifully clear. He remembered a time when the land and he were younger. It had been different then. The wars, the meanings of war had been different. He had fought under Annatar, by his father's side. His father had been the greatest warrior of the tribe, proud and tall and fierce in battle that even the disgusting orcs who fought beside them feared him. Even when upon the battlefield his armour was pierced to the flesh, once, twice, again, the blood pouring from the wounds and spitting red from his mouth, he had not stopped nor fallen. It took a Gondorrim sword to run him through, straight through the back, before he finally collapsed. Noraliwi could remember the grisly beauty of the scene even now. If he concentrated, the sounds of the aftermath came back to him – the iron sound of battle, the dying moan of his beloved, feared, dearest father mixed with his own childish cries. That same man beat him every night. He used to say it would make him a man.

Perhaps now, he could make him proud. Father hated the white men. The white men came eons ago, from an island far out to west where the land of the Gods could be seen from its peak. First they were kind and generous to the people they visited. Then they started asking for things in return; food, taxes. In the end, the kindness turned to cruelty, and his ancestors became no more than slaves to the Numenoreans.

_They died, in the end_, his father had told him. _The wrath of the sea gods put the island to end, but the men who fight us and Annatar now are their descendants. Those that survive now are no better than their ancestors. We must put an end to all of this. That is why we fight…_

"My lord?" There was still faint worry in this soldier's eyes. Ezekh was a coward. Noraliwi blinked, returning himself to the glassy world around him. He explained:

"If my guess is right, and Lannat's spies are correct in their claims, the troops will leave Emyn Arnen to arrive at the Crossing of Poros in the late evening." He began, "They will camp here, by the river, where there is fresh water and reasonably dry land. As the men settle for sleep, you and a few others, disguised, will approach the royals, claiming to be emissaries of Khalifah. You must lure them away from the tents, to me. Meanwhile, the men in the woods and mountains will then launch their attack on the camp. Burn it all. All will be ready for when Elessar's entourage arrives. We may kill one, if it comes to it, as a warning. We will make him choose which he would have live. If he wants the other, still alive, he will return control of the southern kingdoms, to us, and not interfere in future."

"But, my lord, what if… what if…?"

"If we should be… interrupted or should aught go wrong, our task will then be to eliminate The Steward and the Horse King as quickly as possible. Anyone who does not escape must not survive as a prisoner. Tell that to your men. Understand?"

"Yes, my lord… are you saying we should commit suicide if caught?"

Noraliwi stared at him firmly, "Better to burn in death than live life as thralls." He smiled to himself ironically, "That is what Denethor understood a little of as well."

* * *

Eowyn brushed back a strand of golden hair from her face.

She looked down, hands on hips.

Ceremonial robes were packed. As were necessary hunting boots, walking boots and cloth slippers for indoor wear. She had made sure to force three extra pairs of thick socks into his pack; though he told her the climate was much warmer down south she persisted, insisting that socks had more than one use, as bandages, for instance. "Whatever would I use bandages for?" He had asked, and she had replied, "I do not want to think about it."

She had personally made his lunch rations as well, supervising the kitchen staff as they loaded the food supplies onto the long caravan-wagon.

Now, she heaved, wincing at the slight ache in her lower back, as she pushed a last trunk of Faramir's clothes and weapons onto the wagon.

"My Lady, I implore you to stop!"

Eowyn turned to see Legolas running towards her, and then his smart hands took the packages off her and pushed them with the others, as if as far away from her as possible.

"Legolas, what do you mean by this? Am I some cripple, to be coddled and preserved?" she said haughtily.

"My Lady, I mean no offence by this. I know well your strength and while I would not dare to provoke your match under normal circumstances—"

"—You mean to undermine me!—"

"—_In your present condition_, Lady Eowyn, I cannot stand by while you work so strenuously. For the good of that child in your womb, Madam, please! Rest!"

Eowyn mouthed furiously, then turned away.

"What is happened here?" Faramir had heard their loud voices from the stables and come over, "Eowyn, what has Legolas done to anger you?"

The Elf coughed gently, "I am grievously sorry to have offended so. Lady Eowyn was hauling some of the heavier trunks, and I feared for… for her safety."

Faramir stared incredulously at his wife, "Eowyn! Do not scare me. You know better than that. We are not concerned for your well-being alone. Legolas has every right to tell you so."

She nodded, and he noticed how tired she looked.

"I am sorry Legolas. My tongue was too quick and sharp to you." She gave a bleak but sincere smile, "Thank you. I do understand, and appreciate your kindness and concern."

"Then you will let me finish these tasks for you? It will be my pleasure." He said coyly.

Her smile widened, "Then it shall be mine too."

The Elf took her hand in a caring kiss, and then left to manage the horses for the trip.

"Oh Faramir, I am so tired!" Eowyn cried suddenly, suddenly burying her head against her husband. Faramir started, not accustomed to this kind of behaviour from his normally icy-calm wife.

"Have you had more dreams? Has Noraliwi returned? I should have more guards for you…"

"No, no, nothing like that." She said quietly, "I just feel… awful. I was sick again this morning. I cannot eat without retching minutes after. My headache will not go away. Everything seems to hurt and the midwife said it was all normal! I feel like screaming or crying. I do not like this!"

Faramir held her consolingly, and kissed her, "Hush. You are strong, my shieldmaiden. You have not held a child inside you for so long before, and needed no miracle medicines to achieve this. This is a brave task, but you have done worse. And all will be over when the babe comes."

She smiled, and a little colour filled her cheeks, "You will be there with me?"

"I promise. I wish I could stay here with you…"

"No, I would not ask that of you. I will be well here."

"I would pray for it." He looked up, seeing Eomer waving at him from his horse. They had had him harnessed down so he would not slip, which he did not seemed to appreciate. His broken leg was propped inside a cast, a wooden box-frame that encased the limb. It would prevent further injury, but on a horse, it looked ridiculous. The Rohirric King knew it too. Faramir smiled to himself.

"This is Farewell, my love." He said, sweeping a bow to his wife. She kissed him again, holding his face in her hands, before letting him mount his horse in a jump. Eomer trotted over carefully, and allowed himself to be kissed and embraced by his sister, who also slid him a small packet of spiced beef, whispering, "For the journey." He held her, whispering in her ear, "Westu hál, Eowyn." And she repeated the blessing of their Rohirric tongue, "Westu hál. Ferðu, Eomer, ferðu.", _Be thee well, go-thou,_ _Eomer, go-thou_.

And then she stepped back, accepting her place in the home. Legolas stood beside her, and she was thankful for his presence. Together, they waved as the train of men, horses and wagons trailed and bumped along, out of the palace stables, out of Emyn Arnen and out of Ithilien. There was no parade here, as there was for Aragorn Elessar, but the farmers and people of the towns came out of their homes, and watched their Steward go by. Some threw flower petals, and others oatcakes wrapped in leaves and paper for the troops. The Prince of Ithilien was well-liked.

"Will he be well?" Eowyn asked, standing and watching from the stable courtyard, to no one in particular.

"Of course," Legolas replied from beside her, "And if he is not, I am sure you will rescue him sufficiently." He gave her a brash grin, and she couldn't help laughing.

* * *

Rain pattered steady against the bedroom window. It had started a few hours earlier, and though it was not heavy, showed no sign of stopping. The summer was drawing to a close, and autumn winds echoed through the palace corridors. Fires had been lit, and the smoking embers cast trailing shadows across the solid walls of the chamber. 

Eowyn wrapped a blanket around herself as she sipped a little warmed milk – her evening custom before going to sleep. Sometimes she used to drink some wine for insomnia, but now, she had to be a little more responsible. She drank the rest slowly, her hand resting on her now slightly-bulging abdomen.

Faramir was probably setting up camp about now. They were following the route of the river to the border of South Gondor, and would then wait for Elessar's party to catch up to them, before going onwards, south, south, into the horizon…

Eowyn felt the flickers of sleep around her eyes, and laid down on her bed. She did not fear to sleep now, yet even if she did, she knew she was protected. Legolas was not far, and she herself was protected…

She laid her head on her pillow, wrapping her blankets around her tightly, imagining the arms of her lover were holding her now. And she settled into dreams of

_Eowyn_

A voice. Eowyn's eyes opened, but she stayed totally still. The rain outside had stopped. One hand travelled under her pillow, to feel the hard, cold metal under there. She gripped it tightly.

_Eowyn_

This would not happen again. Eowyn kicked off her covers, diving onto the floor in a careful roll so as not to disrupt her belly, and held the dagger before her, her arm ready, her feet firm.

_Eowyn_

Always, that voice. It did not sound like Noraliwi's, and Eowyn did not feel remotely asleep this time. She glanced at the empty glass of milk by her bedside.

"Where are you? Who are you? Come out! Come out so I can see you!" she snarled into the darkness.

She had expected him to laugh, to laugh a wild cackle at her endeavours – should she scream for help? - but there was a faint sound, almost, no… it was a sigh.

"_Oh very well…_" the voice said.

And a few feet before Eowyn, a shadowy figure appeared, seemingly out of thin air. She restrained her gasp, tightening her grip on the dagger and did not move her stance. It was an old man. His robes were black, grey, echoing a sort of forgotten old age. His hair was grey and his hands red.

"You again! A better wig this time I see!" She yelled, and lunged for him. she could have sworn the blade passed into his clothing, and yet he was unharmed.

"I am not he." The man said, when she leapt back,"I am not the man who would cause terror to innocents for his own agenda. I cannot say I am sinless myself, but I would never harm you in any way."

Eowyn peered suspiciously at him.

"Who are you? Why are you here?"

The old man looked back, his eyes dark but full of soul, "We have never met, I believe, Eowyn, daughter of Eomund, but would you not recognise your father-in-law?"

Eowyn looked at him, and couldn't help feeling a shock at the similarity between this man and her husband. He was older, greyer, but they had the same grey soulful eyes, the proud nose, the smooth jawline…

"I don't believe you. Denethor is dead. I am going to call for guards."

"You will not." The figure said, and the force of the command cracked her resistance. Eowyn took a shaky breath. The knife had had no effect on him…

"Who are you, again I ask?" she whispered.

The man paused, and then moving fluidly, as if floating, sat down at the window seat.

"In life, I was Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward and ruler of Gondor during the War of the Ring." He said solemnly.

Eowyn found her hand was shaking. She steadied her breathing, swallowed and said, "You're dead."

"It is better this way. The common folk would have preferred a bloodline king to Boromir any day, no matter how good a ruler and steward he is. Or would have been," The man's eyes shone briefly, "The people like stories. They like heroes and Kings. They want fairytales. Unfortunately, I have been condemned the villain by too many, including my living son." His voice was genuinely sad, "Death makes things so much clearer."

The Lady of Ithilien however, was still shaking. "I must be dreaming." She said.

"Perhaps. It might be better if you thought that."

Eowyn looked at the dagger in her hand, and without thinking, drew a shallow cut over her left forearm. She closed her eyes for a second, and gasped to see a liquid red line appear over her white skin. The pain was real.

"There was really no need for that." Denethor said, not unkindly.

Eowyn lowered her dagger, but did not let go of it, "Are you a ghost?" she asked in a tight voice.

"No. I do not think so. Ghosts are lost. They have no purpose but to haunt the living and the loved. I have no intention of doing that. It seems someone else has been playing the ghost, and he is about to do something much worse. That is why I am here. I am not real; nor am I physically here, that is why you cannot hurt me… it is complicated. Suffice to say, daughter-in-law, I am paying you a long due visit."

Her eyes narrowed, "How can I trust you? How do I not know you are not a very good impostor?"

Denethor sighed again, the sincere sigh of an old and weary man, "Well… Since you are his wife, and one of the few people close to him…" he paused, thinking, "You _are _familiar with certain areas of his anatomy, I hope?" he said.

"Of course," Eowyn replied derisively, suppressing a blush.

"Then… you will know that Faramir has a birthmark?"

Eowyn was silent.

"When he was born I thought it rather amusing, a child born with a carrot on his rear! Ho! A perfect silhouette, growing out of his— I'm sorry my dear..?"

"I _said_…" Eowyn closed her eyes tightly, waving her hand in the air, "which cheek?" she finished in a small voice.

"His right." The seated Denethor replied without hesitation, "But Eowyn, if you love him, you must trust me tonight. I love you as a daughter, though you know not, and I could not be happier my son has found solace with you, but if you love him, you must trust me and listen to me when I say that _Faramir and your brother both are in grave danger tonight! _"

Eowyn did not speak. She was too shocked.

"You said yourself," the old man continued, " 'under that crusty exterior hides a loveable old soul'. I am He. You must go to Faramir. You must warn him. Save him! Both you husband's and your brother's lives are in danger tonight and they do not know that they are walking into a trap!

"A false one will come to them tonight. Do not, do _not_ let them be lured away from the camp. They have many men, troops. They and the camp must be warned."

He peered into Eowyn's eyes, and she was startled again by the likeness, "It will be dangerous," he said, and touched her hand.

Eowyn inhaled…

_Faramir patted the boy on the head, sweeping the cloak around his shoulders. The child continued playing with his toys, sent that day from Brandy Hall, with Master Meriadoc's compliments. From Tookland too, had come a variety of sweets and toys. His arms were too short to reach the table, so he piled them all on his lap. Faramir chuckled._

_He bent down to Eowyn, seated in her armchair, and kissed her, before straightening up and fastening his cloak._

"_The season seems unusually chill," he said, "I shall have the seamstresses make new curtains for the nursery."_

"_Perhaps they could make some more baby clothes too." she heard herself say. He turned._

"_Are you…?"_

"_Goodness, no. I would not surprise you like that. Mareth said Arwen is expecting again. A little princess this time."_

"_Perhaps Elboron could do with a little sister too…"_

…and blinked.

She did not remember having sat down, but she was now, disorientated. Denethor was looking at her, kindly, a little like Theoden used to.

"Was that… the future?" she asked, her throat strangely parched.

"If you would make it so." he said emphatically.

Neither said anything for a while, but the still darkness around them was warm and oddly comforting. The fire had gone out.

"I loved Faramir," Denethor began in his solemn, hollow tone, and Eowyn found herself listening to his words, "I loved him like I loved his mother. Boromir took after me, but they were so alike, Faramir and Finduilas. And in those torturous months, every day that Faramir grew taller, his mother grew weaker and withered. Perhaps I blamed him. I loved her so much. It killed me to watch her die.

"I love Faramir no less. I want you to tell him that. Many people wondered why I tried to burn him. I was mad with grief. It was like losing Finduilas a second time. I wanted to… to take myself and her son to her, to bring her her family, together again." Denethor paused, "And then of course, in my last mortal moments, I realised my remaining son was alive. A small comfort to a dying man."

Eowyn stared at her father-in-law, numb surprise at the fact he was slowly becoming transparent…

Denethor looked down resignedly at his shimmering image of a body, "I must leave now. Farewell Eowyn-daughter! Take fifty men and your most trusted guards and go to your husband. Ride quickly, shieldmaiden! He is in need of you."

Eowyn wanted to ask more, but the vision was fading. She stuttered, and called out, "And what of my child? Will it live?"

And the last words of Denethor came to her ears as an echo, a voice thrown about the room: "_I am not the only one guarding him._"

And then there was only dark silence, and the sound of Eowyn's own heartbeat and ragged breath.


	10. The Crossing of Poros I

_A/N: Seven months. No amount of apologies can mend that huge debt. My excuse? Life in general, I suppose. Broken relationships, decisions and piles of work. Writer's block left me crippled for a time - fear not, the last chapters are written, but not finished - and AS-levels have left me feeling more stressed than I would like. Perhaps in the next installment you will hear the outcome of my desperate attempt not to fail physics AS (after half a year without a decent teacher, the future is bleak), but in the meantime, I humbly offer what products these months have created. _

_Of course we need a cliffhanger! Even still, apologies. Again, the original chapter was too long, and this is the result, having broken it into two pieces. The next chapter is written, so do not expect a repeat of this recent delay, but it will still be a while, what with everything else on my worry pile._

To my readers still out there, thank you again. To know that people still read and take pleasure in my work is worth it all.

* * *

Chapter 10 – The Crossing of Poros, part 1

Halandil stretched his arms and yawned, blowing out the solitary candle by his bed. Having just finished his evening route of the city walls, he was tired, not to mention soaking wet from the rain.

Her Lady had retired to her chambers not soon after the Steward had left. He always included the areas of her chambers in his circuit now, after _the incidents_. Not because of worry for Eowyn, no... but... he liked to make sure.

And the Elven Lord had patrolled with them for a time. Legolas of Ithilien had been disconcertingly polite in his manners; courteous and unaffected, he had said something like he 'wanted to help around the place' and Halandil had wondered if he ever planned to sleep. The man was not at all condescending, you could like him for that alone, and he had talked to him amiably. They chatted over a bowl of soup, laughing as they dodged the rain, talking of their families and homes.

Yet it was difficult to get used to him, Halandil thought. Perhaps it was that Elven Radiance, or the fact he did not have an inch of blemished skin on his proud, beautiful features. He signified a beauty and a people that were slowly vanishing from Middle earth, and it was easy to notice the sadness that sometimes came upon him. His slight figure and easy grace, not to mention his perpetually youthful looks, made him an object of envy among some of the guards, and Halandil had to berate a few of the training youth for making suggestive remarks alluding to the Elf's masculinity. Uncouth brats. It was his job to make men out of them. It was his duty, as a most trusted guard, footman, herald – hell, he'd done all the jobs. He was one of the closest subjects to the Lord and Lady, though he was no noble blood, and he was proud to know he earned their trust. Before he had entered their service as a royal guard, he had served in Osgiliath by Faramir's side, as a ranger. His years were long, and his responsibilities many.

Still, it would be quiet, with the Prince gone. He sat down on the wooden cot, typical soldier's fare, and peeled off his dripping clothes. He often slept in palace quarters, being unmarried and having little family in the city. With Shaliwar, he had entertained some scant childish hopes, but he was too old and she was gone, and the only mistress in his life now was the White Lady of Ithilien.

A knock on the door made him jump. It wasn't time to change shift for another two hours. He wrapped a fleece rug around himself and opened the door.

"Ah!" he cried when it swung open, almost dropping the blanket, "My Lady! This is strange indeed!"

"Halandil." Her voice was urgent, "This is a bleak time to come, but listen and obey, lest tragedy befall us or our Lord."

"My Lady?"

"How many soldiers, men of arms are on call – how many can you gather?"

"What – now?"

"Yes. Now."

Halandil scratched his head sleepily, "Erm... a few hundred are in the city. Lord Faramir was very clear in his instructions in leaving more than enough men to, er, look after you. I remember, as he left with half as many troops than he planned originally." He noticed the flash of –worry? - across Eowyn's face.

"My lady, is something wrong?"

Eowyn was thinking quickly, "I need you to call those guards. Around a hundred men at least, more, if you can. Halandil, I need them now. We are going to my husband."

The aged guard's face was blank shock, "N-now? But... why?"

"Now..." Eowyn thought back to Denethor's warning. Perhaps it had only been a dream. Would she take to heart the ravings of an ancient ghost? But then she looked down at the scar forming sharply across her white forearm. The feelings, the memories, they had all been so real. And the image he had shown her -- that rich snippet of filial bliss and perhaps, he had hinted, the future. That too had been real. If it was a dream, she had been awake. But how did she explain a séance with her dead father-in-law?

"I cannot explain my reasons, Halandil, but I need you to do as I say. Something is amiss within my husband's camp tonight. There is danger. He needs me there." She paused, "Perhaps I am just over-worried. But I need to know. I need to know he is well. Something will happen." She realised a little how ridiculous she sounded.

"This is all very peculiar, my lady, I don't know whether the guards will..."

"Halandil," Eowyn stared him in the eye, "Help me. I need to find him. Tonight."

His expression shifted subtly, became harder. Stiffly, he bowed, "Very well, my lady." He returned into his small room and a few seconds later came out in his Ranger's garb, to her surprise.

"My lady, they will have arrived at the Crossings by now. It has taken them at least half a day to travel there. They left before noon, and now it is ere deep night. How can one hope to arrive there in time? They will leave cross Poros with the Elessar's Gondorrim convoy tomorrow. Morning will dawn before we get there."

Eowyn waved a hand dismissively, "They travelled slowly because of their heavy load and wagons. If we go unburdened it will take less than half the time. I know there are still twenty or so horses available in the palace stables. Get me the fastest horse and I will ride to him. I know this land well. There are seven farmsteads on the route. Five of them have stables. We stop twice, exchange horses and keep on, ride hard. Take provisions for the longest stretch along the plain and we can arrive some hours ere dawn. It will be hard. But it is possible. We will need men, armed and horsed. See how many you can gather."

Halandil looked wary, reluctant, but he bowed, and obeyed.

"My lady, I cannot let you do this in your condition!" Eowyn turned. It was the voice of Legolas. He had been patrolling the walls – how did she not see him? - and had heard every word. Eowyn tried to stay calm, not to let her exasperation show. He strode up to them, his height towering over her, staring her down, "Lady, for your child and your husband's sake, look after yourself! Do not propose something so ludicrous!"

Instead, she took a breath, and drew back a fist, before hitting her Elven escort over the jaw with a resounding crack. She had not meant to hit him hard, but the shock made him stumble back. The slender Elf Lord looked upon her silently, swallowing his shock.

"I apologise for that." She said stiffly, kneading her hand, "But this is important to me. A warning of treachery has come to me this night. I need to ensure Faramir's safety. My own brother too is with him, and lame. For one night, do not assume responsibility over me." She was utterly calm, knowing he would not disobey, "Gather your things and meet me in the stables. Spread the word. We will ride in ten minutes."

* * *

Faramir sat down at his camp bed. Most of the troops had gone to bed, tired by the day's ride. They had gone as slow as possible, and had managed to set up camp before the sun's light died across the sky, leaving now only the small blisters of campfires across the arid land. The camp was on the border of Ithilien's lush earth, by the river that separated Middle earth and the unknown lands. For some of the younger soldiers, it was the farthest they'd ever gone from home. They stopped by the Crossing of Poros, where nearby woods afforded them fuel for fire, and they could wash in the clean water of the river. Here they would wait until Aragorn's troupe arrived the next morn.

Eomer was lying heavily on his bed, having eaten his fill of dried pork and bread. A footman stuck his head inside their tent. He was carrying an evening platter of cheese for the two lords to savour.

"King Eomer is, I assume, is full?" Faramir asked at his compatriot, who shook his head. He turned back to the man and said "Leave me some soup. That'll be enough for now." The soldier bowed and left a steaming bowl in front of the Steward.

"Oh come now, surely a little ale would stir you to life!" Eomer called. He was ruddy in the face. After a few dozen pints from the rationed barrels they had brought, he had decided a wheelchair was a good idea after all. Faramir only felt sorry for the poor soldier who had to push him around during the day.

"It is time to retire to our cots, I think." Faramir said, ignoring his compatriot, "The hour is no longer early. Have a sentry keep watch for wild animals and such. Have them alert me if there is anything amiss." The soldier bowed again and obeyed, leaving the two lords alone.

"Pah, you are too responsible," Eomer said sullenly, "But I am tired... perhaps I shall sleep now."

The few candles were extinguished, and Faramir lay down, thinking now and then of his wife back home, and how she must be coping, with only Legolas keeping her company. A less trustworthy husband would not leave such an elf alone with his wife, he thought, with some irony.

Soon, he fell into deep sleep, that even Eomer's tumultuous snoring could not wake him.

* * *

A very deep sleep. And as the camp slumbered, dark figures slid in between the dead fires and hollow tents until they came to the slightly larger marquee that held the Steward and the King of Rohan. One of the figures stopped and crouched low, checking no one was near. And then, from his black garb, he took a long rolled up leaf, thin and smooth like a straw and hollow, filled with a brown powder. Silently, he lit one end from the embers of a cooking fire that the soldiers had abandoned, and held it away from him, covering his mouth. The leaf fumed a thin, fragrant trail into the night. Carefully, the figure pressed the stick against the canvas of the tent, burning a small hole through it, before pushing the smoking end into the interior. The leaf matter had started to give off a misty lilac smoke. His mouth still covered, the figure crept back into the night.

Around the camp, the others had also finished their tasks, until a faint pall of aroma now hung over the camp. Then as one, they slid back into the shadows. The sentry on guard, his head nodding softly against his chest, sniffed and blinked vigorously. He was called Galendir, and this was the first time he had come on such a mission. Pity he was so tired. It had not been an easy journey on foot. Sleep nearly came upon him again, when rustling sounds in a far corner stirred him, and he stood up straight. Perhaps he was imagining it, but there was movements around the edge of the camp.

"Who is that there?" he called out, "Declare yourself!" but there was no answer, and the figures ran on into the darkness. Galendir moved after them, but stumbled. Suddenly, his head seemed... blurry. He blinked hard again and again, breathing deeply, but it did not seem to get any better.

"Come back!" he yelled hoarsely at the vanishing shadows, "Show yourselves!" he tried running again, but his mind wasn't working properly. All he wanted was to sleep. His vision was becoming a little hazy. He stared out into the darkness, not certain how long he stood there, wavering into a sleep-like state, until he was sure he could see encroaching figures coming towards him.

"Who goes there?" he cried, "Speak! Declare your intentions!"

This time, a voice called back, a rich low rolling tongue in a foreign accent, "Greetings!" the unctuous voice replied, as figures came into the light of his torch, "We are emissaries of Khalifah, sent to you!"

Galendir shook his head. He did not remember either of the lords saying they would be visited by Khalifah's men. But it would be rude to turn them away at this time of night. He didn't have the energy to argue. The small train of men approached, all dressed in black, some with hoods covering their faces. The one in the middle was short and wirily thin, a strange expression on his face. He bowed.

"Khalifah sends his blessings, and us. We come seeking Prince Faramir and King Eomer." He bowed again, "My name is Ezekh."

* * *

The earlier rain clouds had departed the sky as quickly as they had come, leaving an brief and eerie emptiness above. At this time, the black men were approaching the camp of Faramir and Eomer with stealth. At the same time, the troops of Eowyn massed. Halandil had outdone himself, with nearly all the city guards and more, horsed and armed. Some had to be left behind, obviously, to guard the city. The man was nervous, Eowyn could see, but her will held resolute.

There were many men, and Eowyn knew they could not waste any more time. She must make it to Faramir and Eomer before dawn.

The rest could wait.

"Halandil, I will ride first," She ordered calmly, "Legolas will ride with me. Is that fair with you,Master Greenleaf?"

The Elf nodded silently, the hood of his cloak hiding the slight bruise on his jaw.

"I will take ten guards with me. No more. We will ride fast. Halandil, you will gather and lead the rest of the men and follow behind."

Eowyn mounted her horse, Legolas following. Accompanied by only a small group, they rode out of the sleeping city, south over the plains of Ithilien as the larger faction of riders tailed them slowly.

She led the way, Legolas struggling to keep up; for so long he had been a Elf of the woods, and could not match her Rohirric spirit. She paced the night, holding herself as not to hurt the child in her belly, yet her horse was a smooth mount, and she need not have worried. Behind her she heard the cantering sound of hooves, feeling an exhilarating rush at the pleasure of speed that she had not realised for a long time, secluded in the herb gardens of Emyn Arnen.

There was a little guilt. She thought back to Legolas' concern for her. He did not deserve her treatment like that. But she could explain later her reasons. She had to get to the camp at Poros.

In-between moments, when they stopped for rest and torecover or swaphorses at the designated farmsteads (the inhabitants always curious and wary, but obedient to her cause and paid well for it), she wondered why she was doing this – braving into the night to save her husband when carrying his child – but she remembered Denethor's warning. It had seemed all too surreal afterwards, to sit and try to rest in nervous anticipation, choking down water to rid the thirst from travel; yet in some part of her she found it impossible to doubt his words. He had been telling the truth. She felt it innately without fault. Yet by riding away, she was leaving her fortress unprotected, its men-at-arms depleted. Eowyn sincerely hoped she was doing the right thing.

Time! Time! There was so little of it, and after the short rest they were again speeding away at her command, watching the terrain around them change from fertile meadows to dusty plains . Perhaps Noraliwi and his henchmen had already reached her husband – would they be able to overpower him and Eomer both? They would use trickery, she knew. Take them away to some far woods and a neat execution... she shuddered, accelerating again.

"My lady, It would be better if we found you a sedan." Legolas called, out of breath, from his stallion on her left. He rode fiercely, though still unable to match her speed.

"Unless it is a chariot of the Easterlings, I will be sitting on nothing but equine flesh!" She yelled back, digging her heels into the hot animal under her, letting the speed carry memories of the night back to her.

Eowyn had to go, for the sake of herself, her husband, her brother and even her deceased father-in-law. It was somewhat chilling, yet she had to remember the warmth in which the ghost, no, spirit, no, _steward _had talked to her. She trusted him, because for some reason, he reminded her of Faramir.

And suddenly a small niggling memory came back to her: Denethor had said 'I am not the only one guarding_ him _' when talking about her child. The thought of the implication brought a short thrill of bewilderment, and then a quiet giddiness, which she tried to suppress. It passed. Now was not the time. Eowyn felt the reassuring chill of the concealed knife at her side, before speeding on, dust at her heels, riding on under the starlit open sky.

* * *

In the end, it was not Eomer's voice that woke Faramir.

"My lord! An agent of Khalifah!" It was the same footman that brought the soup. Faramir blinked away the spinning whiteness of his dreams.

"What? Now?" he said, still cloudy from sleep. His mind was unusually hazy. And weary. How he wished he could lie back and tumble again into sleep...

"My lord, yes. One of the sentries is with them now. They have come to see yourself and King Eomer."

Faramir rubbed his eyes, wondering why his mind felt so blurred all of a sudden. Even the footman looked a little vague in his expression, although it was probably all the ale. He got up with difficulty and pulled on his tunic and cloak. Across the room Eomer was also a little fuzzy in the mind.

"Five more minutes," He said grumpily when Faramir shoved him to get him up.

"Come now, my brother. It is an envoy of Khalifah's. We must attend to them, whatever the hour. It is only polite. We represent the Elessar as well as our own realms."

"No one spoke anything of this to me." He said, getting up reluctantly. He tried standing, but his left leg buckled under the pressure of his weight, and he fell heavily on the ground with an "Oof". Faramir considered this in some part of his mind. It was true, he did not remember Khalifah having said anything about sending envoys to meet them. Aragorn had not mentioned it either. How strange.

The two lords, both leaders of wealthy lands came out of the tent together. Despite the rich embroidered tabards and the ornate sheaths that hung by their side, they looked distinctly the worse for wear. The King of the Riddermark, for one, was pushing himself along in a wheelbarrow-like chair with wheels, and both rulers looked as if they had immense hangovers. The head of the emissary party however, seemed positively thrilled to greet them. He too saw the signs of their apparent weariness, and knew it was so hangover they were suffering from.

"My lords! Khalifah the future Guardian of our lands sends his blessings!" Ezekh bowed low, and the men behind him followed suit, some a little stiffly in their movements. Eomer and Faramir returned the bow, both a little glassy eyed.

"Where is he, ah, at this moment?" Faramir asked, suppressing a yawn.

The envoy's eyes gleamed, "Why, my lords, I do have a surprise for you! He is right here! Not a few hundred yards from this site, he is settled, and waiting to meet you both." But the reaction of the faces of the two lords were unusually blank. Ezekh repeated the statement to be sure, even raising his voice, but apart from a raised-eyebrow and a 'uh huh?', the pair were in a state of total apathy. Save a few drowsy bodyguards, none of the other soldiers were stirring in their tents.

He sniffed again from the small bottle that hung around his neck. This, the master had said, would prevent him from becoming intoxicated from the incense, but it was a little difficult. Only a few minutes in the camp, and he had to breathe regularly from the salts so not to fall into that drunk state.

He looked back up at the two lords. Their postures were slouched and were looking at him with a amiably blank expression on their faces.

"My lords, how are you feeling?" he said tentatively.

Faramir and Eomer looked at each other vaguely.

"I fare well," Eomer said slowly, "How do you feel, Faramir?"

Faramir grinned sleepily, "I too feel well... how fare you, Eomer?"

"Well," Eomer said, blinking, "How do you feel Faramir?"

"WELL, that is good news," Ezekh said, raising his voice a little, trying to urge them away as quickly as possible before the effects of the incense wore off. The two lords looked back at him, their expressions cheerily vacant. He raised an arm, pointing away from the camp, into the black night, "Why not come this way with us, my Lords? Lord Khalifah is waiting."

"I do not see why not," said Eomer, to his brother-in-law, "Do you, brother?"

"I see no reason not to," Faramir replied, rubbing his eyes, "What of you, Eomer?"

Ezekh interrupted with a loud cough, "This way, Lords." Seeing the two men's bodyguards following, though dizzily, he stopped.

"Lord Faramir and Eomer go _alone_." He said, and the three guards halted, blank and unresponsive, and obeyed, staying behind.

The cloaked men carried lanterns to light the way and the two rulers followed Ezekh away from the camp, Faramir shuffling in his steps and Eomer in his chair, pushed along by a black-cloaked man.

* * *

At this time, less than a half-league away from the river, sweating and breathing hoarsely, Eowyn and her troops rode hard across the plains, closing in on their goal. It had been a hard ride, and many men had had to stop and turn back. Three horses had thrown a shoe, or faltered from exhaustion, and had to be led back. Those who could not go on or turn back, stayed instead and made camp where they were, to wait for news and the rest of the group to return. The rest, stalwart mounts of Rohan bred, they could lose no time. And now, the weary remainder had almost reached their destination.

Minutes since, they had passed the Haudh-en-Gwanur, the Rohirric twin-mounds of the fallen princes in that battle long ago: symbolic gate of the southern boundary of Gondor, and, for Eowyn, a reminder of the skirmish they would encounter there. On the horizon lay the silhouette of the encampment. Faint mist hung over the canvas city, and as she came close there was a cry from Legolas behind.

"My lady, stop here!"

She clicked her tongue in her horses ear to slow it down, pulling hard on the horse's reins until the hooves had beaten to a halt. Behind her, her men had also stopped, panting, their breath misting in the night.

"What is it Legolas? What do you see?" she asked.

"In this case, it is smell. Can you not smell it?" he said. She took a deep breath. There was no apparent odour on the clear night air, but there was a faint trace of... something. For an instant it shocked her to the core. She gasped, straightening up on her mount. This fragrance... she remembered this, the dreamy aroma of purple that had brought so many nightmares. The condensed memories of Denethor, Noraliwi and the blonde girl came rushing back in a painful blow.

"My lady?" Legolas asked, watching her carefully. Her face was hardened.

"We must keep on going." She said.

"Not in this manner." He said, resolutely, "If you recognise that scent, you know what it means and what it does. We will lose our minds if we go there unprepared."

"But I must reach them!"

To her surprise, he smiled. "Do not worry. I did not spend all those years beside Aragorn in the wilderness without learning a few things." From a coin purse hanging from his belt, he drew out a small parcel wrapped in paper. Inside were a few brown crinkled leaves, but Eowyn had had enough experience as a healer to know what they were.

"Athelas." She breathed. Legolas smiled at her in his enigmatic way.

"Do we boil them?" she asked.

"Burning would be quicker." It was Halandil. He and the rest of the men had caught up, and he rode up to Eowyn, out of breath.

"But less effective," Legolas disagreed, "If we had a helmet of water and soaked the leaves inside, boiling it on a cooking fire once we got inside the camp, then the vapours would diffuse more easily."

"Then we'll do that," Eowyn said impatiently, preparing to start her tired horse again. An Elven arm restrained her.

"Wait." Legolas said, his eyes glittering. She wondered at his expression.

"What do you see?"

He pointed to the distance, where Eowyn, squinting, could make out movement: a train of people. Scores of moving feet shuffled across the plain, having already passed the Crossing. Small flickers of orange showed they were carrying torches. They were approaching, no, _marching_ towards the camp. The train had not seen the oncoming party -the riders were dressed darkly and carried no lamps -but it was still a chilling sight.

"They are soldiers, my lady." Legolas murmured, "Cloaked. They have been hidden in wait, I believe.They are not of Ithilien, nor Gondor, Rohan, Dol Amroth or any other realm friendly to the Kingdoms. There is no movement from the camp. I fear they may be hostile, but we cannot be certain."

Eowyn stared, whispering, "Have I come too late?" to herself. The men behind her were armed, though a little breathless like their mounts from the intense ride here. Time was passing quickly. They watched the distance in silence. The men were approaching, closer and closer. Then suddenly, arcs of light propelled towards the encampment. Legolas gave a sharp cry.

"My lady! They are setting the camp alight! I can see movements - the men are woken, but - ai! The camp is burning!"

Eowyn saw it: tents ignited in a burst of flame. Wisps of fire sailed vertically as the gaseous mist over the camp flared in the heat. She gave a suppressed gasp in the disorienting thought that Denethor had been right.

As if on cue, Legolas whispered by her ear, "Lady, we are many, and ready."

Eowyn nodded shortly. Her eyes still locked at the horizon, she muttered to him: "The camp must be protected. Fatalities must be minimised, on both sides, if it can be helped." She drew her sword slowly from her side, seeing the grim sky reflected in the shining blade. "All of us, we must value this treaty. Let not the peaceworking between Elessar and the southern lands be extinguished by the bloodied actions of a few."

Stars in the canopy above glittered eerily, reflected in the eyes of the Elf. "I understand." Legolas said softly.

And then Eowyn looked to the yellow fires before her, and raised the sword into the air. Behind her, the horsemen drew into a line, flanking her on both sides. In a slicing motion, she pointed the blade forward; at the same time the horsemen beside her drove into a run.

The sound of hoof beats drummed in her ear as she charged forwards, sword still in hand, the rushing wind of the ride blowing her hair into her face. At her side, she felt the softly radiating presence of Legolas. His hand brushed against her arm once, and he said, amid the noise: "Lady, please oblige me this, and do not cause me pain by endangering yourself." he paused as the riders galloped past, and then continued, "I will lead your men, and we will find Faramir and Eomer, and all will be well. Promise me, will you stay a distance, and keep safe?"

And she looked at him, and was moved by his words. Sincerely, she replied "I will," and watched his smile break in relief, before he turned, and drove forwards on his mount, charging to the fore. She held back from the charge, letting the other horsemen ride on, feeling a familiar sinking feeling in her heart, mixed with the hurt pride. It had been like this in the battle for Helm's Deep, and when Aragorn had forbidden her from his party for the Paths of the Dead. Yet now she also felt relief, and fear for Faramir, for she was doing this for him. She knew how he would feel if she let herself into a battle, his child in her belly, and so she hoped and prayed for him. So, she turned her horse, instead, riding around the formation of horsemen, remaining at the rear, where it was safer.

The blazing tents came nearer and nearer. Eowyn could see men running, screaming, chaos, and knew that despite what she had promised Legolas, nothing could hold her back if she wanted to find Faramir. There were many awake now, but they were drowsy, fumbling over their armour and weapons and struggling to fight the onslaught. The cloaked men approached from the eastern direction of the mountains on her left. They were many, but outnumbered, now that Eowyn had brought reinforcements. But the men in the camp were disconcerted and ill-prepared, and already she saw the signs of fighting and several casualties. Had they come any later… She hoped Legolas' athelas would work. Smoke covered it, but the aroma of the incense was still nauseating for her.

While the rest of her men were still riding ahead, she veered the direction of her course: west, towards the side of the camp nearest the river. Just as she was speeding away from her riders, she heard the clash: amidst the roar of human voices, there was the jagged meeting of metal. The swords were out, and the battle had commenced. Yet she felt little fear. Halandil and Legolas were seasoned warriors. They would directany combat well. Hearing the battle around her, she desperately wished to be part of it, to partake in the struggle, but her maternal instincts forced her to sheath her sword. She would find her husband and her brother first. In the face of her determination, valour was inconsequent.

The heat of battle: Eowyn knew it well, but her last experience of it was so long ago. The fires had made her, already out of breath and sweating, even hotter. Her face quickly became dirty from ash, and she could smell it: the sharp rust-like stench of blood, already poured now. No -this blood-battle could destroy the fragile peace that Aragorn Elessar and the other diplomats were striving so hard to create! She stopped, restraining and hiding her horse behind one of the larger tents, and entered the camp on foot.

The southern side was mostly empty, the soldiers having left their doped slumber to the defence, and at the river bank, a bucket chain of a few men had been organised that was trying, with little success, to put out the fire. Against the distant mountains to the east, there was the orange of heat, and the black sounds of iron against iron. The marauders, having seen the cavalry charging from the northern plain, rose to meet them. They were none of them horsed, their intent that night being shock and stealth; but they knew how to deal with riders, and many of them had pikes: and so it was that a number of men were unhorsed that night, their steeds fallen, and others of Eowyn's seasoned riders had to leap from mount to prevent injury, and fight with hand and foot and sword against the black-clothed men. The core of the battle had moved from within in the camp to the northern fringes, and while the invading marauders were occupied with the new cavalry, recovered soldiers of Faramir's camp grouped, and pinioned the battle from behind.

In the hollow heart of the camp, Eowyn wandered, searching intact tents for signs of her husband and brother; asking any drowsy-looking men if they had seen either. She navigated desperately through the camp, avoiding the fires and broken timber – here and there men rushed, putting out fires, fighting attackers…

On the ground lay one ofIthilien's soldiers – she rushed forward to him. He was uninjured, albeit unconscious, but a little slapping to the face undid the stupor, and the soldier rose dizzily, saluting her in alarmed recognition. Eowyn moved on – another man, a youngish looking boy barely out of his teens, lay a few metres away, leaning against a wooden pillar. He was awake, and bleeding in the stomach, and only when Eowyn reached his side did she realise that he was one of the Haradrim raiders. When she tried to prise his dirtied hands away from his wound, he squirmed, and she saw that he was crying.

"Hush. Child, hush." She said, soothing him with her voice. She had worn an overcoat for the cold over her travelling britches, and this she took off, tearing a strip from thesleeve to bind the wound. The boy's expression had changed from one of fear to one of wonderment, and relief as she spread her coat over him. He murmured something in his own language, and Eowyn smiled. It had definitely sounded like a 'thank you'.

A few words were barked at the recently-conscious soldier nearby. He seemed surprised to say the least that the Lady of Ithilien was here and ordering him to look after and tend to one of the fallen enemy, but the system of absolute monarchy in Middle earth meant that he did not question or refuse her command.

Eowyn moved on, satisfied that the two soldiers would be taken care of. A clean fresh scent on the air told her that Legolas had done his job: the purifying vapour of athelas settled over the camp like rainfall. Legolas had spread the word to leave as many alive if possible – all would be taken prisoner, but it was difficult, as she could see. Only one side in this battle were employing mercy, and this was proving a disadvantage. The Ithilien and Rohirric troops were having to use all of their skill and cunning to defend and overcome without causing major fatality to the enemy, a policy that went against all the instincts of a military man. Some had taken wounds, though minor, and the battle would be long.

She watched a few of the men, whose extraordinary tactic in subduing the enemy was to use a combination of trip rope and falling pots as a trap when they ran past (many of them, seeing Eowyn standing alone in the camp, had instinctively made a charge for her, resulting in rapid collision with the ground and several items of falling earthenware) and then wrap the struggling fallen with tent canvas and blankets before binding the writhing bodies like packages along the ground. These prisoners were then dragged into empty horse stalls, while the soldiers returned to the battle. The treatment seemed a littlehumiliating, for Eowyn, watching at the side (and sometimes inadvertently acting as bait), but it was effective: there was no reason to complain, and Elessar could still salvage his trade agreements and his peace treaties in the aftermath. Probably.

Some of the men looked like rangers – one of them recognised her and grabbed her by the arm .

"Lady, I thank the stars you are here! I thank the heaven that we arrived in time, but your presence is a miracle indeed!" he said quickly. Eowyn recognised him as one of Faramir's rangers. He had been sent with his fellows to track down Noraliwi days ago.

"Where is Lord Faramir, ranger?"

"I beg pardon, but I do not know. We were sent to find and capture Noraliwi, but there were so few of us," he panted, trying to get his breath back, "We had come this far but could not overcome them. Some of my men are still with him now, standing guard, but cannot act – I do not know where, but it is near here –they are outnumbered. I cannot spare aught to find them; barely had we come in time, when we were caught up in this skirmish! My lady should be grateful we were here too, or all the camp would be set aflame and slaughtered in their sleep! Damn these criminals!"

"But do your men not know of their whereabouts?"

"I do not know the whereabouts of my men! We were all separated when the attackers came. But do not fear overmuch! If we can keep them at bay long enough: I have already sent a messenger north – to find Elessar's scouts, or to the nearest beacon. King Aragorn will get the message!" But seeing her still concerned face, he added "If their Lordships are not in the camp, they must still be near. They may be hidden. The Haradrim men must know." and then he had to run, drawn away to aid a fellow comrade.

And still, Eowyn had traversed the whole breadth of the camp, and there was no sign of her husband, nor Eomer. Aragorn would be on his way once the message reached him, but it would be hours until he arrived, and it would be too late! Now the increasing worry was stretching to panic, up to the point of approaching one of the sacked and wrapped Haradrim, tearing the cloth from his face and yelling at him, "Where is my husband!" The man struggled and wriggled helplessly in his sackcloth prison, reminding Eowyn comically of a fish on dry land, and wailed indistinctly in his own language, which irritated her more.

"WHERE is he? Faramir! Eomer! Prince of Ithilien! Steward!" She growled, and then, with the justified rage of a hormonal mother-to-be, planted her foot several times in the bound man's side. The kicking brought on some more babbling, and then the man, almost reduced to tears, twisted his head to his right and nodded violently. Eowyn paused, then turned to where the man was indicating. East: in the distance, she could see a small forest of trees. In truth, she could not, as it was deep night, but what she did see was

"Light..." Turning back to the bound man, she growled again, pointing,"Faramir? Is he there?" and the bound man, with the instinct of one close to death, or at least, great pain and humiliation, nodded, and then in a strangled voice, cried: "Noraliwi!"

_to be continued..._

* * *


	11. The Crossing of Poros II

_A/N: Coming soon, the long-awaited Epilogue, to a computer near you..._

_-&-_

The Crossing of Poros: part 2

In the clearing, Noraliwi waited, and his grin widened as the flickering procession of light came into view. At the appearance of the two disorientated Rulers, he flashed his yellow teeth and bowed low, to the sniggers of the cloaked men. The lords Faramir and Eomer frowned, but did not react. They gazed around them; above, the fringes of the sky were blotted out by a spindly canopy of trees. There was no fire lit; small torches around the perimeter provided a sickly amount of light - not enough to send smoke signals, but enough to show figures and shadows, shadows and figures. They were cut off and alone, perhaps even in drugged mind this was realised; and far away enough from the camp (how many minutes to walk here: three, thirty?), but that was small worry. With the whole camp at Poros dosed with the drug, they wouldn't be able to tell sword from fish.

"You have done well, Ezekh," Noraliwi said without glancing at his henchman. To the lords however, he was oily in his words.

"Welcome, men! It is good to have you here at last. So I have waited to meet you, so long you cannot understand - but now, tonight, together we are. Here." He smiled again. "I do not believe we have met. I do however have a close acquaintance with a mutual friend of ours. Your wife, Lord Faramir, and your sister, majesty of Rohan." He finished with a nod, his eyes lingering on Eomer's wheelchair.

Faramir shook his head. Noraliwi's smile fell. The effect of the drug was not permanent. Soon, the Steward would come to his senses. With a glance at the other men in the circle, he nodded smartly.

From the shadows came a cudgel, a rope, and pairs of arms.

"Now my lords, I see you are both tired. Perhaps it is time to take a rest? Some sleep would do you good."

Both men were clubbed hard in the back of the head. Faramir fell to his knees, groaning in pain. Eomer, though seated, was knocked hard off his chair and lay upon the ground in a stupor.

"It is a strange experience to have the two of you bow to me." Noraliwi continued, smiling widely, "A very pleasant one too, at that."

His eye twitched as he watched Faramir's face, coming to an unwelcome realisation that Denethor would have looked something like that as a young man too. The same nose and cheekbones, perhaps the same hair. The same hue of lake and sky in his iris... Noraliwi cursed himself mentally and looked away. Gods! Denethor was dead! That part of the plan was long over, and the humiliation still haunted him.

Yet still that unsettled feeling kept creeping over, making his palms sweat as if they were burning...

"It is time," he croaked, "That the West should kneel to us."

He watched Faramir carefully, out of the corners of his eyes, as the two were bound with ropes. He continued his speech:

"The King of Gondor will come in the morning. If you wish to live, you must pray that he acquiesces to our demands: namely, that all Gondorrim men, or any of your northern kingdoms, shall not traverse further south than this river in future, which shall henceforth represent geographical boundary for both our nations. That Elphir and the militia that you keep at Dhakar and the other cities in Harad and Rhun are removed and do not return. Khalifah shall be removed and guardianship returned to the Barons of the Sands... me. That the Lords of the Western kingdoms will hold oath to refrain from interfering in our politics, or our rule. These are our simple requests. If he does not comply to these wishes, or does not provide proof of goodwill in his co-operation, he will find his allies become corpses."

"You will not succeed." Faramir said quietly, as the rope wound around his neck and then tied his hands behind his back; the curved sword on the skin of his neck forced him to remain kneeling, "Aragorn will never agree to your demands when you employ this barbaric violence. His will once strove against Sauron's and did not fail!"

"Vain hopes, my good Steward. You may wish to curb that tongue, lest I remove it. It would make a fair gift for the King of Gondor. Or even, his Queen."

Something akin to a bark burst from Eomer, "Do not sully the Queen's honour with your foul lips! You are not worthy to speak of her!" he struggled weakly against his guards, who forced him back into his chair.

Noraliwi bent forward so his face was level with the King of Rohan's, "I am surprised, majesty, that Queen Arwen Evenstar's security concerns you more than that of your own wife. Unlike your sister, Queen Lothiriel was left completely _alone..._"

Eomer's face was white, and he shook, "You...y-you would not... I barely... you could not..."

Noraliwi leered, his smile stretching like a hound's, "I found Eowyn well enough, did I not?"

A second passed, and then Eomer lunged for him. Noraliwi leapt back, caught unaware, but then thrashed his fist against Eomer's face, causing a groan of pain. More hands and ropes successively bound the King of the Mark.

"This is not the way to gain independence for your state!" said Faramir, his voice steady, but urgent now, "I will guarantee: if you let us go, I will personally deliver your demands and speak for you in conference with King Elessar. He will hear your requirements and accede to them. If our present peace and trade agreements are not satisfactory, I will take your considerations and amend the documents where we can find compromise. We have all suffered under the terror of Sauron. Surely it is a glorious time now? He is overthrown and darkness vanished from Middle Earth. Now is the time for the building of a golden age! If we co operate, trade and make peace, all of Middle earth will prosper! You do not need to resort to this kind of act."

There was a silence after these words; not the dramatic weight of deafening soundlessness, but an expectant hollow in the air. It was barely perceptible, but the guards around Faramir were listening. Some of them could speak Westron, or at least, the mangled version they were taught during the wars; most had a basic understanding of words, but more understood his emotion: he had their full attention. Yet none dared speak, nor make any movement of assent. Faramir surveyed the guards in the clearing. Few dared meet his eyes, save Noraliwi, who stared him full. He spoke again, "What will your men do after you succeed or fail? Where can they go? I beseech you now, Master Noraliwi, Aragorn Elessar is a merciful and just King. If you place yourself in his mercy and release us... you will not be let down."

There was silence for a few moments. A flicker passed over Noraliwi's face as he studied Faramir closely. The words were sweet, yes, but forked was the tongue that spilled the honey...

"You are a good Steward." Noraliwi said slowly. Faramir exhaled, but the man spoke again, "Elessar would be sorry to lose you." And then Noraliwi grinned.

"Give them a good dose. Conversation is tiring, and we have a long night still ahead."

There were small muffled sounds then, as men with covered mouths and small bottles around their neck came towards them, small cloth pouches in their hands. Then both Lords were smothered, as the herb-filled pillows were pressed against their mouth and nose. When the struggling stopped, and both men unconscious, one propped back on his chair, the pillows were removed.

"A great improvement; the Steward talked far too much." Noraliwi straightened up, and all was silent around him. The Steward's head drooped against his chest; the horse lord's leaning back against his chair. Now they were knowing humility. It was a gratifying sight to see them thus: here, before him, powerless, the lords of the Western Powers. These were the men that had killed his father and his dreams and his pride... these were the men that brought down the mightiest god, the Lord of Gifts himself.

Noraliwi gave an involuntary shudder. It was time to turn to the rationed wine.

"Sir?" one of the border men said quietly.

"What is it!" he snapped.

"I hear...horses."

"What are you talking about?"

The young guard shifted uneasily, "I can't see anything... but I hear movement. I think there might be people coming—"

And there he was cut off, as the metal pommel of a longsword clubbed him from behind. He fell quietly into a small heap.

The lamps around the trees gasped and blurred, as the roar of hooves poured in. The first horse, white and shining in the darkness, slowed from its gallop, rearing to a halt in front of Noraliwi, who looked on. He waited until the hooves stopped, his face perfectly impassive, before opening his arms and speaking.

"Lady Eowyn! This is a gallant entrance!" he brandished a white grin, "And the Elven lord of Ithilien too! Has Ithilien's White Lady been engaged with a paramour?"

"Unbind them!" Eowyn cried from atop her horse, seeing the two beloved men in her life subdued in a manner so undignified.

Noraliwi laughed. "You come to their rescue with an elf and barely a dozen men? This does not quite seem sane. You realise you are severely outnumbered?" He watched her eyes widen, and her jittery horse. She would be easily beaten, but still, the fact that she had found them, _here_, unsettled him.

"Release them." Legolas said softly from behind her. Noraliwi's eyes flickered at the elf, who had, in a fraction of a second, notched an arrow to his bow – one that was pointing at his head. His squinted at it for a few moments, while the Elf remained unmoving.

"Would you?" The Haradrim man then asked, his voice becoming low, "I have heard of your valour in battle, Master Legolas, yet all you killed then were orcs and uruks and oliphaunts, black and foul. My skin may be darker than yours, but I am no orc. Of mankind I am, same as your friends and Kings: Afterborn, Apanonar, Hildor, Firimar. I will die anyway." Legolas flinched at the use of Elvish from the foul man's lips, and then Noraliwi muttered, "Would you _kill_ me?"

And, seeing the brief moment of hesitation on the Elf's face, he darted, taking from his belt a small hunting knife, and hurling it at Eowyn's direction. It was not aimed at her, though Legolas and she both moved to defence, but instead it struck her horse in the leg joint.

The mount reared and buckled, throwing its white mane in frenzy, as blood sprayed from its leg. The other horses panicked as it tossed and sprinted, jolting its rider. Eowyn gave a scream as she lost her grip on her reins, and then her balance, falling from the saddle onto the cold ground dully. Legolas dismounted, but Noraliwi's men moved faster: before she had hit the ground, their iron fingers were already on her shoulders. She struggled, but could not reach her sword.

"Bastard!" she yelled at the Haradrim man, as his men placed their blades at her throat. Their coarse hands searched her body, and to her grief, found the concealed blade and relieved her of it. Legolas was still, but his eyes betrayed his sudden fear.

"Let her go." He said numbly, as Eowyn struggled, the tight gloved fingers on wrists and shoulders paralysing her.

"That would prove of little use for you." Was the silky answer, "I could let your lady-friend go, but what of your lieges? I still have two hostages remaining for the Telcontar, when he joins our little party. No. I think you, elf, will join the ranks of your friends. We shall see whom of Elessar's allies is valued _most_. But I warn you: act, and her life is forfeit."

He indicated towards Eowyn, and the knife the men had placed against her neck. She bristled again, crying hotly, "I have never feared death!"

Noraliwi strode up to her, and pressed the edge of a knife against her skin, this time, the cold iron was pressing into her belly. Around her, her few bodyguards, dropped their weapons, and knelt.

"Too long I have waited, and struggled, and again and again, I have been thwarted by a woman. You have fought without fear of death, it is written. Yet you forget. It is not your life alone now at stake, my lady." He growled, watching her wince in pain, knowing innately that one simple plunge into that area of her body, and the nightmares would go. _Cut the spawn from her belly... Denethor's grandchild... would he care? That child... that it where it all started – her child. _He watched his fingers flex, and then tremble, and gave a silent gasp. And then he looked up, straight into Eowyn's ice blue eyes.

"We offered you mercy," she said gently, her arms still held prisoner, "And you repay us thus. My husband is drugged – he would not even realise..."

Yet no sooner than these words were spoken, from Faramir's lips there came a tortured cry of "Eowyn!" – ah, he had heard her voice, and the resuscitating need of a lover is enough to snap the drugged coil of sleep.

Eowyn turned to see her husband, his face dirty and horrified, as he struggled with his guards. The glazed look was gone from his features, and from his lips, over and over tumbled the word, "Eowyn!"; stopped short by another blow from the guards. It was becoming increasingly hard to restrain him however, as Eomer too was stirring from his reverie. When he took in his current situation, he roared mightily and tried to free himself; his legs, however were still weak, and he was pushed back into his chair.

"You brutes! You would harm the White Lady of Ithilien!" he yelled, but it availed little.

Faramir raised his head, "It is not her life that you came here to bargain for." He said soberly, "She is innocent in this. Let her go! I will remain for your purposes, but release her."

"Son of Denethor, do you think me a fool?" Noraliwi stared down the steward in angry fascination, waving one arm towards the sky,"When the sun rises and Elessar arrives, you would not hope to live long anyway! She came of her own whim, and now must face the consequences. Even now I can hear the chaos she caused in your camp. We of the Haradrim know at least how to control our womenfolk!"

Eowyn closed her eyes for a moment, aware of the cold blade against her skin.

Then, she kneeled down, and placed her palms to the earth. Around her were gasps, but she did not move.

"Master… Oh sir," and she looked him in the face - _such a torn complexion... what horrors could he have faced in that grey past? – _and spoke with passionate earnest, "O lord! I beg you now. I beg you, let me go. Let my child live. We are all at your mercy, but our lives will not buy your freedom."

"What is your point?" he drawled. Eomer moved to speak, but his sister eyed him into silence with a glance.

"I mean... Legolas and I... we came together, hoping we would be in time..." Eowyn gave out a dramatic wail, putting her face in her hands, "Please, cause no more bloodshed, no more death! Let me live, oh father!" she cried.

There was a thick silence in response to that outcry. Legolas, stunned, glanced at Faramir and Eomer, both equally bewildered. Noraliwi seemed almost amused and embarrassed at the same time.

"_Father_?" he enquired delicately. Eowyn looked up at him, prostrate upon the ground, her eyes shining and earnest.

"Oh, but you are my father, for the father of my husband I hold as dear as my own blood."

His reaction seemed almost one of panic. His eyes darted to Faramir's face, as if demanding answers of him. The present Steward to the throne of Gondor was silently blank, however.

"You are delusional, I think." Noraliwi said thickly, after a pause. Some of the guards were sniggering into their gloves.

Eowyn clawed after him hysterically, "Father! Do you not recognise me father? I am Eowyn! Oh, good Steward of Gondor! Denethor!" she wailed.

At the sound of that name, Noraliwi's eyes were wide. "The woman truly is mad! She thinks me Denethor!" he declared, but none around him spoke. Ezekh hovered beside him, his mouth torn between a laugh and a frown. The Lady Eowyn had the look of one possessed, yet she seemed harmless. There was the fact she thought Noraliwi was Denethor... "Too large a dosage can result in long term delirium." Noraliwi said uncertainly, "Perhaps all the turmoil of those visits and the incense this night has finally broken her mind."

"Do you remember?" she said, ignoring him. She scrabbled towards him on grazed knees, now speaking in a whisper only he could hear, "I saw you once. I saw your wife – she was beautiful. I'd never have thought it would be her son I married. You look like him." She came closer to his face, her hands cupped demurely before her mouth. "Are you unhappy for us?" she said.

And then she did something strange. She held out her palms before her face, and he saw that her skin was dusted in a fine brown powder, and this she blew into his face.

Noraliwi blinked, and feigned amusement. The powder smelt of soil, but more curious was _why_. Finally, the Steward's wife pushed to insanity! Perhaps that plan had not been a total failure.

"Was that _magic dust_, then, Elf-friend? Sand?" He muttered, seizing her wrist, "If it was poison, I must disappoint you: that I am immune to all natural poisons… or was that my--" But his voice quavered, and she ignored him still, her voice a frenetic whisper.

"He looks like her, doesn't he? Did it hurt when you tried to burn him? Did you wish to join Finduilas? Bring the whole family closer?"

He saw the glazed look in her blue eyes, but when he heard the words from her lips, it was as if teeth bit into him again and again. She was speaking nonsense, yet he understood . He knew the name Finduilas; he had read all the archives. She had been Imrahil's sister, born of Dol Amroth, allegedly 'pining' away in Gondor. Died in third age 2988. That date he remembered reading. She was nothing. A footnote in history. There hadn't been anything else about her.

But unbidden, an image rose in his mind:

_Woman, Wife, Mother: dark and languid and peaceful, her face and body perfectly still, as her life wasted away in that fortress out of sight from the sea..._

Noraliwi cried out, and stifled it hurriedly. It had been _her_, but more than that, it was a memory he had seen in his mind's eye, vivid and surreal at the same time. It had not been his memory – he had never met the woman in his life and there were no portraits of her, but it was her. He _felt_ it. The emotions too, and that turbulent heat as he remembered...

He looked back into Eowyn's staring eyes, aware of the scrutiny of his men. She had done something, he was sure. The way she breathed... as if the world had rippled for an instantly, and everything was deceptively unchanged. Bloody Elf Magic. Why else did he see Finduilas?

But inevitably, the trees surrounding him darkened, as the shadows lengthened in his mind. He had been thankful for their cover when they first arrived here, but now they were claustrophobic. He could see movements in the darkness, figures between the trunks, lurking... _waiting..._ he shook away the wild thoughts.

"Lord?" Eowyn again, her face a mimicry of concern, "You look unwell."

She was taunting him. The others were perfectly silent now. He glanced quickly at Faramir to see his reaction, and nearly gasped.

_The oil on his face as he faced the darkness beyond in the cleansing fires. I poured the fire like I never poured the love in my heart. Sleeping, not dead. Asleep. I watched my son sleep beyond the flames..._

"My Lord, that is your son." Her voice was soft and faraway, "My husband. Your youngest son..."

_Asleep, this baby, darling, small and pink, whilst a five year old Boromir wondered where this new brother had come from. He had his mother's smile. Such a lovely child, eyes sad and grey when he learned she was not coming back to him. Do you feel the hurt? To have lost something that will not return? The numbness subsides, replaced: by the sharp black cold of that orb as truth tears slowly into you. How could you possibly hope for redemption?_

"No.", eyes still fixed on Faramir's face, "Stop this."

_Do you feel this pain? To have loved and to know shame? Do you know the feeling of defeat? To know impending doom – ah, but who will ignite the pyre for you? The fire is in your own mind and you lit it yourself, while all else burned away..._

"What is this... who..." His palms were sweating, burning hot. The knife in his hand slipped onto the ground. The voice in his head was not his, but he could tell who it was trying to be.

The soldiers around him stirred, curious. Ezekh looked worried, and eyed the exits.

_The seeing stone: black and shining and cold, but it sees you. The Eye saw all, wreathed in fire, consumed you. You cannot escape _

_FIRE_

The last word was a roar inside his head. "What is this Elven magic, witch! You have cursed me with your spectres!" he yelled. Around him he felt lapping tongues of heat, threatening to devour him alive. Eowyn was serene.

"By the leaves of Athelas, I do not need to create my ghosts."

And then the forest erupted.

Two dozen riders stormed out of their hidden wait in the trees, and with them, soldiers, Ithilien infantry, armed, but also carrying... sackcloth and rope. It was the disciplined voice of Halandil shouting orders that carried in the night. The riders had surrounded the area. There was no time for conflict or skirmish. In a matter of seconds, The Haradrim insurgents were subdued one by one, threatened by the blade, if not already bound in cloth.

As Noraliwi turned to see his everything collapse, Eowyn too had moved. His head jerked back, but she was already behind him, and the cold knife he had dropped was pressed at his own throat.

"We offered you mercy." Her voice was low and chill behind his ear. Noraliwi saw, out of the corner of his eye, Ezekh try to run, making a stab at one of the riders. He wounded one, but as he ran he was brought down by the rider's horse. He heard the eggshell crack of hoof on skull, and Ezekh was on the ground.

"You will face justice, Noraliwi." Eowyn muttered, as around them scuffles burst out and were suppressed, "We offered you mercy, but you will be judged. Mankind has no Mandos like the Elves to await eternity. Nevertheless, I believe that beyond the dark circles of this world, there is justice."

"You offered me mercy!" he laughed hoarsely, struggling, "How dare you pity me! You think I am misled, damaged by life, misguided? Fool! Hypocrites! _The mercy of Kings_ – where were you and your mercy when my mother was taken? Where was your compassion when the orcs burnt our lands? When, orphaned, I scavenged the streets and killed grown men for my hunger? It is you and your soldiers and your wars that caused me to be! So much for ghosts-- I _long_ for justice!"

And then, with a soft jerk, he threw his elbow into Eowyn's chest, making her crumple. She cursed as she stumbled, before feeling another hard blow on the side of her head, and then at once, all of the torches around the Haradrim camp extinguished.

Frantic noise and movement as all was plunged into darkness: Shouts. Footsteps. Horses.

"Catch him!" She shrieked, and felt a comforting hand on her arm.

"Eowyn," the voice spoke, and she held tight to the hand of her husband.

There was a cry from Legolas somewhere far off in the trees – "He has fled for the river!" and then Eowyn let go of Faramir and found instead the reins of a horse.

"Eowyn!" he cried once more, but she was gone, horse and rider bursting out of the copse, guided by the light of the smoking camp and the sliver of a moon in the sky, and by the white fury that raged, rampant, in her heart.

Through the clearing, through the trees, branches scraping her arms unnoticed. Past the smoking fires of the camp, hearing the faint song of Legolas' bowstring and the thunder of her brother's war-cry (he had found a horse), through the skirmish, here, vaulting over a hurdle of tied prisoners – she tensed her legs muscles for the impact – and onward, as she traced the path of her quarry: that figure before her on the stolen horse, his cloak unfurling behind him like wings...

She followed, her heartbeat instructing her movements, but now there were two heartbeats in rhythm. One of them was faint, but firm. It would grow stronger in time and for that she would be willing to do anything. She rode. Her new horse was not a heroine's white that gleamed in the dark, no: it was jet, the midnight black of the fury within her, as if she were riding on the night itself, silent and hot and invisible.

His head turned again and again, always, to see her closing in. What fires must burned in her eyes, only he saw then; not quite the hatred he bore, but sheer indomitable will, as her steed drew closer. His huntress was the one who brought down the Witch King, mightiest of the Nine. The one who slew Annatar's greatest captain. And with every breath, he heard her, unrelenting, at his heels.

She rode on: the other horse was close, the coward upon it turning every few seconds to see her there, unfailing. This man would have killed, manipulated, tortured to have her dead, and that was but a tool for further death. And for what? Belief? His faith in his own righteousness? Blind morality, that would bend fools to murder! But there was justice. He had suffered, but he had also murdered. For all those he had wronged, betrayed, slain, there would be retribution.

When he turned he saw she was armed only with a knife. Yet still he was aware that he feared her; he feared her because now he saw that all that he had read and learned of her in those long years had been true, and because he had seen few things that he ought to have seen in these last hours. What must have floated in the dark recesses of his mind she could only have guessed at.

The moon was blurred again as clouds obscured the sky. The sound of water betrayed his path, and she followed, across the river crossing, where the flow ebbed and was low. Here, centuries before, an army had once tried to come north, and were surprised to be unchallenged at this idyllic spot. Little did they know what had awaited them.

And still, they ran, hunter and quarry, across cold waters. The rain came once more, first, in little pricking chills upon Eowyn's face, and then a deluge that stung her eyelids. The fires in the camp were doused, but neither saw nor cared. No longer were they on Gondor's soil, and both were in a small way aware of this. The plain was wide, barren, only two solitary figures beating their way across the black dust.

"You cannot chase forever!" Noraliwi cried, as icy lashings battered his face, "I never wanted it to be this way – you forced me to this! But even Denethor had to make his own pyre!"

He was hot, sweating, the water steaming off his back, but as long as he kept on riding, he could outrun her. He was faster, and she was a woman with child. And as the distance between them stretched irrevocably, there was an hollow moment, filled with rain, as both came to this realisation.

And perhaps, submerged in her own fury, Eowyn imagined it, but she heard the voice that sounded like Noraliwi's voice, and yet she knew who was speaking:

"_Farewell_."

And then there was a blinding flash. Light: pure; brilliant; for a moment the world exploded in white, as light seared down from the heavens in a dazzling cacophony. The sound that tore through the air was of the sky breaking in twain.

Eowyn and her mount reared, a scream unreleased in her throat, her hands across her eyes as the thunder died away.

When she blinked again, everything was quiet. Spots danced in front of her eyes, but all was dark again. Eventually, she shushed her black horse quiet. The only sounds were of her own harsh breathing, and the dripping rain down her scalp and collar. And then in a slow, enveloping wave, she was overcome by the thick raw smell of roasted flesh.

The last pyre had been lit.

-&-

And that was how Faramir found her: standing like a pillar in the dust-beaten plains, her eyes fixated on the nauseating sight before him. They had lit lanterns, which petered in the dying rain, but it made the scene no better.

He obeyed his first instincts and rushed to his wife immediately, and in a comforting gesture, wrapped a cloak around her small shoulders. She softened a little at his touch, and her hand found his and grasped it tightly. He could not see her face, so he brushed away her wet hair, and tried to avoid looking at the gruesome mess of charred flesh that lay on the ground metres from them.

"Clear the body away." He ordered brusquely, "Bury it. Do not mark the grave."

The soldier saluted the command, and with a fellow aide, covered first the stolen dead horse in a coarse sheet, wrapping the carcass fully. Then others attended to the body of Noraliwi, his naturally dark face now blackened and charred beyond recognition. There was a distressed cry, as one of them accidentally touched the skin: it flaked and peeled off in scorched black and pink sheets. Only when the body was removed did Faramir feel Eowyn's tense body relax.

"We were worried," he said gently, putting his arms around her waist from behind, "Eomer is well; he is at the camp still, taking care of everything. He still worries about Lothiriel... but I believe she is safe. Aragorn will come in the morning." She did not answer. A hollow pause ensued. "I must note, this will be the last time I leave Legolas to govern my spouse and my household affairs." He added in a more smiling tone.

She turned around to face him at last, and he saw the marked anguish over her defiantly beautiful features.

"I am sorry." She said, "I should tell you about-" but he stopped her.

"Eowyn," he said, his grey eyes startlingly bright, and he held her face in his hands as he spoke: "Eowyn! You are more dear to me than aught else I could hold in this world, and I will not deny you caused me grief tonight. But I too must beg pardon. You are a strong woman – my wife is the Maiden of the Shield-Arm, and I have been a fool to try and cosset and cage her. Never shall I repeat that mistake. But I see you are well, and I am more relieved than my words can express that you are unharmed." He watched her beloved mouth break into a smile, "I feared for you tonight, yet to see you here, whole and well, I thank Eru ten thousand fold. You do not know how much you have saved. If you had not come to us, we would likely be dead in the morning, and Aragorn would have received no word. Thus I must find myself rejoicing that you have come to me this night. There will be your tale to tell... but not now. Tonight I am content to see you here, with me. My Eowyn!"

He smiled at her, one that spoke of a heart rending joy and it wrought her deep. For eternal moments, they stared, not daring to laugh from the buried ecstasy and strange consciousness that the last few hours had imprinted on their minds. And then Faramir leaned close to her bare face and kissed her, deeply and warmly, and for Eowyn the world melted away.


	12. Epilogue: Knotting the Yarn

_A/N: Yes, here, finally the ending... finally finally finally. Forgot apologies in last chapter for such a delay after a cliffhanger (sorry). Page ruler won't work. Ah well. AS level results reeled in (scraped four As, what a relief) and the summer (where?) draws to a close. I hope this work of mine has entertained. For the most part, I've enjoyed writing it, and let my style develop on its own (possibly explaining the sometimes awkward narrative). Now comes the farewell. Any regrets: the fact it took two bloody years to finish. Time management. Shame they don't teach it. _

_And so, I bring you the (hopefully long awaited) conclusion. I prefer the second half. Feedback, as always, would be much appreciated. Thanks go to my reviewers, yes you, for your support and helpful comments, and for sticking with this even through the long spaces. Thank you!_

-&-

Knotting the Yarn: the Epilogue

Though a King had arrived at the camp of Poros, there was little fuss made. Work was still to be done, debris to be cleared away, people to feed, wounds to bandage...

As the sun rose over the waters of Poros, swollen with the storm of the previous night, the camp was already halfway dissected. The addition of men eased the workload, and, while a king removed his leather gloves to help shift the horses, an elf learned a new song in a language more mysterious and obscure than his own. The fallen were buried peacefully, a small row of graves, all marked save one, and songs sung to honour the dead, for the dead must have their honour.

And, secluded away from the rest of the camp, a husband and wife that had found each other once more, now found themselves stretched apart by the necessities of time. Yet between them, between the explanations and joyful tears and frantic love, lay an unspoken understanding, of how, and why, and how: in a few years time, between a child's birthday presents and the making of new drapes, a husband's words would break Eowyn from her _deja vu_, and make her smile to herself.

As the sun peaked in the domed yellow sky, much of the work was done, and as the carts and horses were fixed under the shades of trees, men slept away the hottest hours under makeshift awnings. Now, as we enter one of the newer tents that escaped the fire of yesterday, and listen...

"Eomer is sleeping, my Lord."

"He is in need of rest. Come, sit with me. What of his leg? I heard he fell off his horse during the fray."

"After the fray, my lord. He slipped while dismounting."

Mild laughter. "I arrived too late then. Yet you seem to have coped quite reasonably."

"My men sire, shall be rewarded with a raise."

More laughter. "I must commend their tactic of taking prisoners."

Concern on Faramir's face, "The numbers are worrying. Can we take all of them to Dhakar?"

"There is no need to fear. Their plans of anarchy are crushed beyond repair. From what I have heard, this desperate scene was orchestrated on the will of Noraliwi alone. Fatalities are small in number, and they know we will not execute them. If we are to face rebellion, this shattered group will play no part in it."

"Some have still had to be constrained..."

"I am aware, but I hope little by little, with kindness, they will understand the true nature of this kingdom that they feared for so long. I think many are happy enough to be fed. I admit to be taken aback to see how young some were! By and by, they will begin to see the benefits in cooperation. And is that not a great sight to take into the capital of the south? No, I have brought supplies enough with me, and a messenger has already been sent to Dhakar to alert them of this, ah, interruption in our route. Khalifah will send a proper welcome party when we arrive, and more food and drink. I think drink is something we can all do with."

"That remark I toast." Pause. Sighs. Mugs put down.

"And Legolas is leaving?"

"Aye, sir. He will take Eowyn north, and then he goes to meet Gimli."

A sigh from the King of Gondor.

"I remember when we were the Three Hunters. I doubt if I am fit enough to run the breadth of Rohan twice..." he rubs the green gem on his ring pensively, "there never seem to be adventures anymore."

Faramir smiles, "You would not count fatherhood, marriage, and kingship as an adventure?"

A conceding smile, "Perhaps, but the risk of fatality, strangely, has not diminished. Assassinations are unnecessary when I seem to provoke Arwen on a daily basis."

"She is a fine lady, my lord."

"I could not agree more. And yet you speak no praises of your own wife?"

A relieved laugh, "I have been sickened, and for a night, beyond grief. Then I was rescued, and the medic has said she is perfectly well. She, and child, seem unaffected... I dare not call it miraculous, for it seems almost beyond the realm of miracles... but it has made me unimaginably joyful. I shall be sorry to have to leave her twice." Here, an almost reproachful look towards the king.

"I am sorry to make you perform that ritual once more."

"It has been dealt with already, and I cannot hope for a more understanding woman. She will be the finest mother."

"I believe she is already. Eomer has told me of events in Emyn Arnen, but there are he things he did not, could not explain..."

A frown upon Faramir's brow, "She has told me. She has told me of some things that I dare not comprehend, of dreams and visions that I cannot believe, and yet it feels like I must. I must, for how could I choose to ignore the truth? I watched Noraliwi, chained by something, a guilt beyond his own mind... and his manner of death was grotesque enough. One could call it the work of the Valar," –an abrupt laugh- "but that would not be true."

"I too, have heard a strange version of events." An uneasy pause, "Eomer seemed to believe that Eowyn had used magic upon... he said she did something to- or she found some of the drug? Powdered incense, perhaps?"

"It was dirt."

"Dirt?"

"Dirt. The dry earth that she had knelt upon and placed her hands. This was the powder she blew upon him as 'magic'."

"Then what does that mean?"

"I... I admit, I never knew she was such an actress. Her ruse was so convincing, perhaps something within his fragile mind finally snapped? Or something else just pushed him a little further. My lord, I do not wish to name it. I do not wish to... In time, I will understand, but now, it is too much."

"You do not need to say it."

"When she told me... I despised my first reaction, but, at first, I thought she was truly delusional. For so long, I have bordered on detesting for- it was impossible to believe that this was how we were saved; sire, that this could be the work of my _father..._" he gives a final sigh, "Once again I am rescued from flames."

The King is silent, his expression inscrutable. But he places a warm hand on his steward, his comrade, his friend's shoulder, "And now...?"

"In time I will honour his memory. For now, I will wait."

"For the birth."

"For the first day of the rest of my life."

Mugs are raised. A clunk. The sound of good natured laughter, fading, as we draw away from the dialogue.

And tomorrow, the soldiers will embark upon their road once more. Brothers-in-arms set foot into the southern unknown, shoulder to shoulder. There will be victories, and simultaneous defeats, and socks-as-bandages as well as athelas may come into use; and every footstep enters history. Yet here a fact unrecorded: there is one, who will in time realise how to forgive a loved one long-gone; and the love of a parent never withers, no matter how old the child.

With stories it begins, and with stories, it ends. Or perhaps, never quite ends. Such is the cyclic way of life. From stories, the young learn, and the old wives teach, but as the wheel turns, so can the tale. And a new child may hear a new story. Or perhaps, a slightly different version of the same story. A circle never changes shape, yet every listener repeats a different tale...

&

_For Eowyn_

It is Autumn and six years have passed. Harvests have been reaped, trade routes drawn, alliances forged, cities expanded, and above all, children born.

In the city of Minas Tirith there are celebrations for the birth of a princess, a second child to the Queen, and Aragorn Elessar mighty pleased himself, and no mistake (so the common folk spake). Parades and street banquets have been organised; the world is coloured with paper bunting, and the people rejoice in this public holiday.

It is at this close celebration that various dignitaries congregate. The honoured pair, Legolas and Gimli, arrive together. Faramir of Ithilien comes bearing gifts and praise (though his wife remains homebound, for she is heavy once more, he excuses). From Rohan, come King Eomer and his wife, the renowned beauty Lothiriel, and though the Thain and Mayor of the Shire cannot attend, gifts and ambassadors have still travelled the North-South road to this happy city. Even Khalifah, guardian of the Southern lands, sends tribute in the forms of spices, bolts of fine fabric, various mules, exotic preserved fruits and, of course, a precious gift for the precious elfin child. A doll, handmade by a master artist from the most exquisite silk, with silken threads for hair and eyes of semi-precious gems: a porcelain princess and a veritable masterpiece.

Few would realise at this moment though, that the baby girl, here sleeping in the Queen's arms, would one day grow to an enchanting beauty surpassing aught any master craftsman, dollmaker or artist could create. Beloved of princes, a world of suitors would seek her hand:- her heart lay beyond the sea... a heroine, but not of this tale.

&

Autumn strews the city of Emyn Arnen with fallen leaves, whirled through the cobbled walkways by the fading summer winds.

Eowyn sits in her chambers, stiffly, for no sedentary position is comfortable long in her present bulky shape. For once, she is devoid of unfinished tasks or other work, and is consequently idle. Thus, she amuses herself in temporary embroidery, relying on a few known certainties, such as the sounds of the next accident, to remove her from this ungratifying task.

She does not wait long: a smashing sound echoes from the other room. Eowyn makes no exclamation: she has already dropped her sewing and pushed through the door.

"Lirwen! You have let him near the plate again!" she admonishes, entering the parlour-cum-playroom. The new drapes have already been put up, according to Eowyn's specifications, and she admires it for a moment. It is a small room, cosy, used most often as a playroom, however unfit to the task it may be, as the pearly debris on the floor show.

"Apologies, my lady. He ran out of my hands." The girl picks up the smashed china quickly and begins to sweep up the fragments. Eowyn sighs.

"Elboron." She says, and her voice is grim. Save for the two women, the room is perfectly still.

"Elboron." She says again, added severity.

There is a short pause, and then, with small scuffling sounds, a head, topped with a floppy mass of reddish curls, emerges slowly from under the window seat, followed by a small, wiry body. His eyes are oaken-green, and a permanent mischievous grin seems to perpetually adorn what would be a pale, angelic face. Eowyn knows better however, and, pulling one of his arms forward, slaps the wrist sharply with her other hand.

"You little goblin!" she cries hotly, and the boy flinches, but the same mischievous look returns and can never be altogether erased.

"Ma'am, you must not be too harsh on him," says Lirwen softly, sweeping up the remainder of the former vase, "He'll run into a door rather than through it. He is reached that age."

"To your misfortune as his nurse, I fear, Lirwen. Your workload is heavy; I shall talk to the housekeeper over the pay."

Lirwen laughs, "The pay is quite sufficient, my lady, and I enjoy the work." Eowyn smiles, her hand still gripped around the boy's struggling arm.

"If you do not mind, dear Lirwen, the schoolmaster is not coming today, so I shall keep him for the rest of the afternoon. You may return to your other duties, if you wish."

"Very well, Ma'am." The nurse nods and leaves.

Eowyn bends her awkward knees so her face is level with that of the boy's, opens her mouth for another hail of remonstrating words, and reconsiders. The child stares back innocently. He is small for his age, but makes up for it in his (almost Elvish) ferocious speed. He is not yet of age or size to be placed on a horse, but the only restraint to stop him mounting one is Eowyn's forceful grip and the futile threat of a leather belt.

He listened to his father though. Faramir is a gentle man, but when he scolded, Elboron listened. Eowyn knows how distasteful it is to Faramir, and indulges him the role of the rewarding parent. It suited him better.

He looked like Faramir more than her, though the hair colour was hers (Eomer's had been almost identical as a child), but the eyes, the mouth, the slight speckling of freckles... she had never met Boromir, but sometimes she fancied that one day, in an indirect form, she would.

She remembered the painful birth, and the joy that went with it. She remembered Faramir's relief, and his smile when they told him he had a fine, healthy son, and how she herself had laughed, in loud convulsive sobs, having been tormented so long by the image of a green eyed girl-child who she could not save.

So now she stares at this little stranger, so close to her heart, and he stares back, his green eyes wide; and instead of reprimands, from her mouth comes the words:

"I love you so much."

The boy's expression does not change, perhaps from being too accustomed to his mother's queer moods in these recent months as her belly grew, but he leans forward a little, and gives her a shy, obliging kiss on the cheek. A small gesture, but it causes an ecstatic feeling to rise up in Eowyn that she has to restrain herself from embracing the child to death.

She tightens her smile with difficulty and, straightening up, says gravely, "What will your father say when he gets home?" No answer, so she sighs.

"Elboron, you will come into my room to do your lessons and stay there while I do my sewing. You may play, quietly, and if you are good, I will tell you a story." she looks into those piercingly expressive eyes that are not her eyes, "...about your grandfather."

"King Theoden?" the boys asks. Eowyn tells so many stories of him, the war-hero of the Mark may as well be a forefather to the child.

"No. I shall tell you of you father's father. The Steward Denethor of Gondor."

The boy shakes his head.

"Ada never talks much about him."

"That is because your father isn't very good at telling stories, though he knows it better than I do." Eowyn holds out a hand, "Come, would you like to hear of Denethor, son of Ecthelion? A proud man, valiant. He ruled Gondor before the Return of the King, and with his sons, kept it safe from enemies for a long while. A powerful, flawed man... a good man. And he loved your father very much, just as he loves you now."

The boy nods solemnly at this unspoken truth.

"Alright." He says, with the serious self-consciousness of one many times his age.

Eowyn buries her smile at this. Bending, she gives him a rushed, tender kiss on the forehead which he tolerates stoically, and then, still holding his hand, leads him through the door.

_-&-_

_End_


End file.
